Into the Veil
by julian-juliana
Summary: In OTP, Hermione was never wounded in the Department of Mysteries. Instead of Sirius falling through the veil, Hermione did and landed in a world where her kind does not exist. Magic and supernatural forces are dangerous and dark in this strange universe, but fraternizing with them may be her only way back home. Maybe not.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Into the Veil

Author: Julian-Juliana

Summary: In OTP, Hermione was never wounded at the Ministry of Magic. Instead of Sirius falling through the veil, Hermione did and landed in a world where her kind does not exist. Magic and supernatural forces are dangerous and dark in this strange universe, but fraternizing with them may be her only way back home. Maybe not.

Rating: M

Warning: Swearing, gore, sexual innuendo, implied sexual situations, and miscellaneous horrific images and implications. Possible OOC.

Author's Note: I've toyed with this idea for a few months, a Harry Potter and Supernatural crossover with a character from HP is put in the Supernatural world. I added a plot with it, too. You know...to make it more fascinating, I guess. *Shrug* Tell me what you think? Should I continue? R&R. Sorry for any mistakes. Came back and changed the date to January from April to line up better with Season 2 of Supernatural. This takes place right before Hunted. Sam hasn't taken off yet to do his own investigating of other psychics like him.

* * *

January 2, 2007

The rough rope chaffed the skin on Hermione's wrists. They were tied above her head, and she was hanging from the ceiling of the abandoned storage cellar. Her arms hurt from the weight of her dangling body, the tips of her boots barely touching the concrete flooring. She was becoming light-headed from the smell of gasoline Walker doused her with minutes before. Small miracles happened when his BIC wouldn't ignite. He thought she had done something to keep it from producing a flame, but she hadn't. The moment he dumped the gasoline on her, all her bravery and focus left her. Her heart leapt into her throat at the smell, and she knew she wasn't going to make it out of this one alive.

"Burn, witch, burn," he had chuckled before trying to flick on the BIC.

No matter how hard he tried, not a single spark came out of the lighter. Not even enough warmth to tantalize the fumes coming from her. He left her to get another, and men like him usually had a stash of those somewhere near them. Walker's car couldn't' be far, and she wondered what was taking him so long. Was he purposefully being slow as a form a torture? Wondering if her heart would give out before the big show?

Hermione couldn't get ahold of her emotions. Her nerves were frayed, and she couldn't think clearly. There wasn't a chance she'd get herself calm enough in time to remove herself of the situation. Even if she could, her go-to method would be to burn the rope and that would only kill her. When he returned, she could try again to wrap her legs around his neck and choke him, but he was armed. Two knives and a gun all around his waist, waiting to be used if necessary.

Walker could have simply killed her by stabbing her or shooting her or both, but he drowned Alison Packet, hung Nancy Derek, and stoned Katherine Jones. Hermione never met them but heard about their deaths and thought she had a case. Early upon her arrival to Kansas City, she discovered that these women were a part of the same community. As in witch community. This coven wasn't like the one she came across in Augusta where the teenage daughters of the rich, white politicians gallivanted in the forest, dancing in see-through slips and singing chants to the sky. The coven here in Missouri definitely was a dodgy group. Hermione knew that right away when she walked in on them in a classroom at the college, the girls standing around a beheaded dog and making scarlet swirls on their mostly naked bodies.

After firing a few bullets into the air, she got their attention and they screamed like a gaggle of little girls. All except for one. One of the girl's eyes turned black and accused her of killing three of her pets.

As many of the girl started running around the room, trying to get as far away from her and the demon as possible, the exorcism chant flowed off Hermione's tongue fluidly. The demon tried to fight her off but soon succumbed to the spell. Black smoke poured out of the girl's mouth.

The girl possessed was dead. Hermione checked the body for wounds and found her neck broken, and by then all the other girls had vanished. She'd find them. They weren't smart, and she saw their faces. Most likely, they went to the school. It would've been easy to pick up and leave, give the young women mercy. But Hermione kept her eyes and ears close to the ground before finding there coven. Many cases of slaughtered pets and missing children littered the area, and she knew the demon hadn't done all of that. Demons loved watching humans succumb to monstrous behavior more than they liked committing them.

While scouting the campus for the girls, mostly by hanging out at the local bars, she came across Gordon Walker. She knew who he was the moment she overheard him introducing himself as an FBI agent to campus officer. The man didn't even bother using an alias instead of his real name, the ponce. Soon, though, she found out he was the one who killed those three girls and was looking for the others. Hermione would've let him be, but he was offing the girls in a very bad way. Symbolic. Historical, in nature. Torturous.

Sometimes the job meant dealing with bad people and not supernatural monsters. When that happened, it meant using methods outside of mans' law. The law wasn't designed for witches, pagan-god worshippers, hunters, etc.

On previous occasions, Hermione had been able to make some of those dabbling in human-sacrifice to turn themselves into the local PD with a full confession. Most of the time, they refused.

Hermione never tortured those she had to kill. The shot she took was immediate and clean. No mistakes. No suffering. Walker was different, and he had confused her for a witch.

Which she was but his accusation was founded on her being a woman and in the wrong place at the wrong time. Actually, she was rifling through the trunk of her beloved Prius in the campus parking lot at midnight when he came up behind her and saw her large and questionable stash of goodies she got at the local Wiccan & Co. shop. She had tried to dissuade him, but he was having none of it.

It was embarrassing how easily he knocked her out, but she wasn't expecting a male hunter to punch her in the face. The ones she met were mostly gentlemanly. Perverts but sexist in the sense that they saw her as unthreatening.

She woke in the cellar and was immediately doused in gasoline. It certainly was ironic that she was going out that way. She was the only real witch in the world, so she might as well die like one.

Hermione's stopped breathing when hearing the cellar doors open. Walker was back. She heard him come down the stairs and frowned. There was a second pair of footsteps. Both pairs of feet were wearing sturdy, heavy boots. Had Walker brought a friend? Well, that completely eliminated any chance of getting out of here alive. She was weaponless, tied up, and against two fit men.

"Smell that?" she heard a man, not Walker, ask.

"Gas," said the other man. He was not Walker, either.

Without a second of hesitation, she screamed, "Help! Help me!"

Two shadows rounded the corner, and she saw the metallic gleam of two guns being pointed at her. "Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" she begged.

"What are you?" one of them asked. It came from the shadow of the shorter one, but she reckoned he wasn't short at all.

"Human," she replied. "I'm human. Get me down."

The taller one started towards her but was stopped by the other. "She's a witch, Sam."

"She's human, Dean."

"She killed those kids."

"I didn't. I'm a hunter. Walker was confused," I rushed out. "I swear."

The taller one lowered his gun as the shorter marched towards her. The closer he came, the more she saw of him. He was handsome but mean looking. He was clearly a hunter himself. He had that look. His light brown hair was short and spiky in the front, and his eyes were green and pretty. Not the prettiest green eyes she'd ever seen. Far from it, but they were a nice pair. He had stubble on his cheeks, and he was close enough she could smell the scent of beer, pizza, and coffee on his breath. Oh, yes. Hunter, indeed. American flavor.

"My God," the man muttered while examining her. "Sammy, she's a kid."

"I am not!" she screeched as the taller came forward to look at her. She felt like a zoo animal.

"We'll get you home," said the Sammy one. His voice was softer than the other man's. Gentler and sweet. His dark brown hair was longer and flipped out at the ends like many of the college-aged boys these days. His eyes were bluer than green but seemed like they should've been brown. His face was smooth like his voice, and she wondered if he had ever gone through puberty. Height said yes. Everything else said no. His breath smelt more of coffee than anything else.

"I sincerely doubt that," she said and rolled her head to the side, looking as pitiful as possible. "I hurt. Get me down, so I can go kill Walker for being a complete imbecile."

The shorter one, who Hermione believed to be Dean, pulled out a large knife from his belt and sliced at the rope. In moments, she was on her feet and unwrapping it from around her wrists. "He's gone," he said. "Saw us and drove off. Knew he was torturing witches and saw the cellar."

"Is there anyone we can call?" asked Sam.

"I promise I'm older than you." She stared at Dean. "Maybe even you." Her kind aged slower than non-magical human beings. She was twenty-seven and was still asked for identification when buying cigarettes, alcohol, and renting a hotel room for the night.

Damn! Walker was gone and even though she was furious for what he did, the hunt for retaliation would have to wait. She was hungry, tired, and smelly. Her entire outfit, not that it was anything splendid, was ruined. And she still had to track down the other members of the coven. She was tempted to just leave town and come back if the killings started again.

"Are you here because of the coven?" she asked while stripping off her gasoline-drenched, jean jacket.

"We were here because of the women dying. We found out about the witches not long after. Found out Gordon was ganking the girls by irony."

Hermione frowned at Dean's amused tone. The girls may have deserved to die but not by the means Walker chose.

She refrained from stripping off all her clothes. The jacket would have to be enough for now. Though there wasn't anyone they could call, she did have a favor to ask. "I need a ride."

* * *

"You're smelling up my baby."

Hermione arched an eyebrow and assumed Dean meant the car. She caught his gaze in the rearview mirror's reflection as she rolled down the window, letting the night air filter through the vehicle. "It's not something I can help."

"Where are you from?" Sam asked and craned his neck to glimpse at her. He must be referring to her accent

"Not from here, obviously." She then belatedly added, "I was born in England."

Dean whistled for some reason and said, "Far from home."

"It's not my home."

"Got family?" Sam asked.

She knew why they were asking questions, so they could suss out if she was a credible person or not. Nevertheless, she hated it. Coming to America and choosing not adapt to the accent made her stick out. People wanted to know everything about her, especially if they were hunters. They didn't trust her. For a lot reasons. One, she was a woman. Two, she was short. Three, she looked nineteen. And four, she was English. Every time an American saw the gun in her holster, they thought she was joke.

"No," she said.

"I'm sorry," Sam said and he must've assumed they were killed by some monster. She'd let him believe that. She wasn't about to tell them how she got here. They wouldn't believe her anyway.

"Where are you staying?" Dean asked as they entered the city limits.

"Holiday Inn by the campus," she said.

"Nice digs for a hunter," he commented.

"I don't have to eat as much as you." She eyed the backseat in intrigue. "Gas can't be cheap either."

Sam made some strange, sputtering sound. "It's not."

Hermione paid for relatively nice rooms by taking trips to Atlantic City, Las Vegas, or Reno. Whichever gambling city was closer. She played, counted cards, and got out before things looked suspicious.

"We never caught your name," said Sam.

"You look like an Elizabeth." Dean smirked and it was not the first time an American had said that to her.

"Diana."

"Really?" Sam's voice shifted several octaves higher as his head whirled around.

"No, you idiot. It's Hermione."

"It's _what_?"

"_Force me to keep you as a prisoner,  
Not like a guest; so you shall pay your fees  
When you depart, and save your thanks. How say you?  
My prisoner? or my guest? by your dread 'Verily,'  
One of them you shall be._"

"Sam, what the hell?" cursed Dean.

Hermione stared at Sam's ear for a long time, wondering about him. Not many hunters, American or even English had ever made that connection before. It was always like Dean's reaction. Her name was rare and was often mispronounced, especially if one were trying to read and say it at the same time.

"_Winter's Tale_," said Sam and looked back Hermione. "Right?"

"Yes," she replied slowly. "Where did you study?"

"Stanford. How about you?"

"I didn't." The boy was trying to make polite conversation while digging deeper, but she could answer honestly about this. She finished secondary school because she had but never went on to uni.

"Your dialect indicates-"

"Really?" Dean glared at Sam who became quiet. "Forgive my brother. He's kind of geek."

Brother? It made sense, but she wouldn't have guessed. They hardly looked like each other.

"Sam and Dean. That's your names," Hermione verified.

Dean chimed, "Sam and Dean Winchester."

Hermione felt the powerful urge of opening up the door she was leaning against and jumping out. Of, bloody, course. Winchester! They just had to be the ones to find her. Word was that they were toxic to whoever they came in contact with: monster or human.

"I'm sorry about John," she muttered and the car swerved, both boy taking their eyes off the road to stare at her.

"You knew him?" asked Sam.

"No," she answered truthfully. "The hunter community is small. I met him briefly in passing at Singer's." And he belittled her because of her height, appearance, and accent.

"You know Bobby," Dean said. He thought she was lying.

"Hardly. But yes. Everyone does."

"We're almost there," Sam said.

"Spot on." Hermione saw the Holiday Inn sign up ahead. When they got into the parking lot, she thanked them.

"You go on ahead and get out of town before Walker catches your scent again. Once he thinks you're something, he's won't get the idea out of his thick skull," Dean said and she snorted.

"The hunt is far from over, Dean. There are six other girls who need to answer for their crimes. I'm the only one who knows what they look like, what classes they're taking, where they like to get drunk, and what time. I'll take care of this." Hermione climbed out of the car and Dean called after her.

"Sure you can handle it?"

"Go away."

* * *

Hurriedly, she rushed through the lobby of the hotel and took the back stairs to avoid the guests and staff. When she got her room, she remembered she had her key back in her car. Sucking in a deep breath, she her hand on the door knob. The small light turned green and she heard a click and entered. She stuffed her clothes into a bag and showered and got dressed into another pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and some boots. After putting her hair back into a tight French braid, she winced at the shiner Walker gave her. Her reflection told her it was deep purple and somewhat swollen. Going through her toiletry bag, she found her favorite face and body cream and rubbed a small amount around the tender flesh. In a matter of seconds, the injury disappeared and left behind unblemished skin.

She packed up her belongings and took her bag of clothes, dumping them in the parking lot dumpster. She treaded over to the campus, and put her bags in her car, and she opened up her trunk and found what she was looking for earlier when Walker knocked her out.

Lucky for Hermione, the six remaining girls were roommates living in a small house by the campus. She parked her car a half-mile away and hiked through shrubbery to get there. Since it was a week night and after three in the morning, she trusted the girls were home. Maybe not asleep but home, nonetheless.

The house was foul smelling, reeking of copper and rotted flesh. The scent was pungent, and Hermione debated the idea of calling the police and sending an anonymous tip about the missing children and local pets. She changed her mind, though. She always did.

The sitting room was empty, but the couches were well-worn and squishy looking. The girls were using them, so Hermione crept towards the piece of furniture and slid a small, tied-off canvas cloth underneath it. She put another inside the television which was a bit trickier. She'd come and retrieve them the next day. Six simultaneous deaths of young women were bound to attract attention from other hunters, and all of them hated Hex Bags.

Unlike the ones Hermione came across in the past, these were going to do nothing but make the girls fall asleep and stop breathing. They wouldn't even know what was happening. They'd sit on the couch, turn on the television and die to _Good Morning America_. It was kinder than shooting them all in their sleep.

The next night, she returned and gathered the bags and placed a phone call to the local PD, reporting six dead bodies, using the house's landline and wiping it down afterward. She had done her best to evade the law, but alas, her prints were in the system.

Her wallet was looking rather thin and sparse, and she decided it was time to take a trip to Atlanta. Maybe she'd play a few extra rounds to make up for the clothes and shoes she lost. Stay an extra night even to lounge about the indoor hotel pool with a good book. It'd been a few months since she was able to sit down and read a book besides the bible. Demon possession was on the rise. One or two a year used to be the norm. It was the first week of January, and she had one so far.

Something was coming. She could _feel_ it.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** This chapter hops around a bit, starting in Season 2 of Supernatural but will settle in Season 3 of Supernatural, taking place after Jus in Bello.

For those who don't know, I changed the date first chapter from April 2007 to January 2007.

I apologize if this chapter is kind of jumbled. Please read and review.

* * *

**February 2007**

"You're sure?" Hermione shoved her bag into the backseat of her car.

"Yes, Ma'am," Ash drawled and she could picture him half-stoned and three sheets to the wind, lying on his bedroom floor at the Roadhouse and staring at the wooden ceiling.

Her heart pounded and she could barely hear the young man's voice through the rush. Twenty minutes ago, he called her with a case. _The_ case. The case she'd been wanting for the past eight years. It was now a race to see how fast she could get the bloody hell out of town and put a thousand miles behind her.

"I don't want to run across the country for something that's a hoax."

"Hoax or no hoax. There's some serious shit going on at that campus. Weird shit."

"I can't drop everything for every piece of weird shit, Ash."

"All right, all right. But I'm positive this is what you're looking for."

Exhaling roughly, Hermione rubbed her eyes and muttered, "It's worth looking into, I suppose. Send the coordinates to me." She flipped her phone shut and went to open the driver's side door but was roughly whirled around, her face inches from a man's broad chest. She grabbed the gun in her belt holster, but the man grabbed her wrist and smashed it against the glass of backseat window. It cracked, and she pulled the trigger and the gun dropped to pavement. She went for her knife, but large fingers wrapped around her throat and bodily pinned her to the side of the vehicle. This was when she got a good look at him.

"Sam?"

He grabbed the knife she had gone for and pricked her cheek with it. "Is this for me?"

She clawed at his crushing grip. Air-loss was becoming an issue. "Put me down."

"It's a treat finding you here, Hermione. I wasn't even looking," he said, his voice oddly warm and syrupy, like honey. He replaced the knife with his nose and rubbed it against her face, inhaling deep. His grasp on her neck was tight and she was using both hands to pry them off her. The knife found the hem of her shirt, and he slipped the blade underneath to trace threatening patterns over the skin of her belly. She shivered at the cold metal. Her knife was always sharp and wouldn't take much to slice her.

This was not the Sam she met over a month ago who was all puppy and broody. Their encounter had been brief, but she thought it was safe to think he wasn't a creep.

"You're so pretty," he told her and released her neck, only to whirl her around and trap her between him and the car. He yanked the clip out of her bun, twisting his fingers around the fallen tendrils and pulling her head roughly to the side. He placed his mouth next to her ear and said, "Dean thinks so, too. You should've heard the way he spoke about you in Kansas City. Kept talking about the way your jeans cup your ass." Sam's open palm languidly slid down from her waist and cupped her backside.

"_Christo_," Hermione whispered and Sam flinched and backed way just enough for her to slam an elbow into his ribs as hard as she could. He stumbled and she whipped around, folding her arm and raising her other elbow up to hit him underneath his chin. Because of his height, the blow barely grazed him, but she wasted no time in delivering a punch right below his gut. He fell to his knees, and she was about to kick him in the face but hesitated when he pulled out a gun from inside his jacket.

* * *

**Two Weeks Later...**

"What do you mean they killed it?!" Hermione picked up the nearest object, a half-empty Styrofoam cup of water from her bedside table, and chucked it at Ash. Her brain was fuzzy and her limbs felt like sandbags, so her aim was off to say the least.

"Easy, easy! Not my fault. Just got word from Ellen who got word from Bobby that he and the Winchesters killed it. He called it the Trickster."

Hermione shook her head and tears welled up in her eyes. Helplessly, she slapped her hands on the mattress.

Ash stole the seat next to her and held her hand. "Be happy the S.O.B. is gone and can't hurt nobody else. Sometimes these hunters kill each other's monster."

"I'm not upset because somebody else killed him, Ash. You wouldn't understand."

"I can try. Or if you want someone with a more femininely caring persona, I can call up Jo."

Hermione closed her eyes and bit her tongue to keep her chin from trembling. "It's done." Damn those Winchesters! Damn that stupid, puppy-faced Sam for getting possessed and shooting her in the leg, shattering her femur and putting her in the hospital for two weeks. He ruined her chance of getting out of dodge and tracking down Loki.

She was never going to get home now.

'Hey, uh..." said Ash and she opened her eyes. He pulled a flask from inside his vest and offered it. "Little something to perk you up."

"The drugs are doing just fine," she mumbled.

He wiggled it. "It's whiskey."

A knock turned their attention to the open door. Dean stood in the doorway and nodded awkwardly at them in greeting.

"Dean, my man!" Ash saluted him with the flask and beckoned him in. "What brings you?"

"We're on our way to San Francisco. Just came to apologize on Sammy's behalf. He's in the car and too embarrassed to even come say it himself."

"It…" Hermione clenched her teeth together and tried to put herself in a forgiving mood. Not only had Sam allowed a demon to take possession of his body, but he almost murdered her. On top of that, he and his moronic brother killed her ticket home. "It's okay. It wasn't his fault."

Dean gave her a grimacing smile and shoved his hands into his leather jacket. "Well, you're looking great, you know. Healing right up."

"Not really," she said. She wouldn't be able to walk properly in months. The metal plate and pins holding the bone together would take even longer to get used to. Didn't matter, though. The one thing that got her into the hunting business was gone. She should just ditch her car and go back to England with their safe, anti-gun laws and their proper fish and chips. Maybe even go to school. Get married. Adopt a couple of babies.

She should think about this again once the morphine wore off.

Ash coughed uncomfortably before breaking the silence. "Dean here caught wind of a werewolf."

"Mmm," Hermione acknowledged, her eyelids drooping heavily, her tri-daily dosage of painkillers taking effect for the afternoon.

"I know, right?" she heard Dean say, excitement in his tone. "Haven't hunted one since high school. When's the last time you ganked one?"

"I hate werewolves," she whispered and passed out.

She wouldn't see Dean or Sam for another year. During that time, she considered leaving the hunting business behind and starting a new life back in England, but then May hit and the Roadhouse was gone. Ash was killed and Ellen took off to be with Joanna. Loads of hunters died in that bar. Good people. Other hunters murmured about a sharp incline in demon activity and black cloud-sightings all over North America. They also talked of the Winchesters and how they opened the Gates of Hell somewhere in Wyoming. Hermione wondered if they were listening to themselves as they spoke. What hunter would do that?

Thoughts of returning to England vanished when she was on a case in late July. It was her first since recovering and was exorcising a demon out of a seven-year old boy. He talked of Azazel's death and a new demon's rise to power. He said he looked forward to seeing Dean Winchester's soul writhing in Hell.

"There's a war coming," said the demon. His little body was strapped to a kitchen chair in his parents' house. They were in pieces in the sitting room, and the smell of their blood permeated the air. "Lilith could use someone of your skill. Your power. You're letting it waste away into nothingness. She'll give you immunity if you join her."

The child died the moment the black smoke left the fragile vessel.

Lilith. She recognized that name from her early years of Sunday school. Supposedly, Eve was not Adam's first wife. Lilith had been given to him but refused companionship and left the Garden, therefore, refusing God's commandments.

She believed the demon when he said this Lilith was on a rise to power but unsure about Dean Winchester heading south. With a phone call from Bobby who wanted to know everything she knew about demon deals, she discovered that it was true. Sam had died a few months ago and Dean foolishly sold his soul to bring him back. Hermione imagined he wasn't too popular with fellow hunters at the moment. He definitely wasn't in her book. The next time she saw him, he was getting a punch in the face.

* * *

**February 2008**

"Ow!" Dean cupped his nose to stem the blood flow. "Bitch, what was that for?"

A knee to the gut had him sinking to his knees, and Sam stepped forward with his hands up in the air. "Whoa, whoa. If you want to hit someone, hit me. I deser—Oh! Ah!" He messaged his jaw and glared at her.

Hermione wiggled her throbbing fingers. Damn these Winchesters and their flawless, hard faces. "And here I thought I wouldn't be able to do that. I thought you boys died. Your faces were all over the news. Duck!" She un-holstered her gun and Sam dodged just in time for her to hit the vampire behind him in the throat. It wouldn't kill him but slow him down enough to-

SPLASH!

Vampire blood sprayed over her already gored up trousers and boots. Thankfully, the boys were the ones who got the brunt of it.

After spotting the signs in various newspapers a week prior in Cincinnati, Hermione determined Louisville was having vampire problems. Three days went by before she found the nest residing in an old, condemned house.

Usually, hunters paired up when taking down a nest of vampires, but the only person Hermione trusted was Joanna and she was currently in Alabama taking care of a poltergeist. Deaths in the double digits were happening daily, so there wasn't any time to waste. Hermione waited until midmorning to attack. Some stayed and fought while others snuck through the basement where she found a tunnel system. Those that stayed on the main level died, and those that fled, she went after. Five minutes in, she ran into the Winchesters trying to impose on her case, the wankers.

"There's probably more," Sam said and flicked the bloodied blade in his hand.

"There _is_ more and they are going _that_ way." Hermione pointed behind them.

Dean unsheathed his own large, curved blade and turned around. "Stay behind me and Sam. Don't make a sound."

"Yes, because I got this far in life by staying behind tall, attractive me and not making noise."

"You think I'm attractive," he said smugly.

"Hey, listen, Hermione," Sam tried.

She stomped passed them. "Now is not the time." If they dawdled any longer, they'd lose the trail. The idea of telling them to get off her turf was tempting, but pride wasn't an issue she could afford at the moment. And she doubted they'd leave, even if she threatened to dismember them.

They caught up to the remaining vampires and killed them but not without some battle injuries. Her neck was grazed, and she was bleeding enough to need stitches. The boys were lucky enough to get a bit bruised and nothing more.

* * *

Leaning against the table for support, Hermione tilted her head to give the mirror a better view of her wound's reflection. The bandage was soaked from the blood and the warm water of her shower, and she peeled it off to reveal the seeping gash. Gingerly, she picked up a few peroxide-soaked cotton balls next to her and dabbed. She winced and hissed at the stinging. She then threaded a needle and was about to start stitching when there was a knock at the door. Glancing at it, she picked up a cloth and held it to her neck and padded over to take a peek through the peephole. Wearily, she opened the door as far as the chain allowed and greeted the young man with a frown.

"I'm sorry," Sam offered and lifted one small, white paper sack that said Baskin Robbins on it and one medium-sized, brown paper sack that said Biggerson's. She caught a whiff of the heavenly smell of hot grilled red meat and salty, fried potatoes.

"Are you trying to apologize to me with fattening food?" She closed the door and heard through the barrier, 'Dean was wrong. I should've stuck with the salad and frozen yogurt.'

She slid the chain off and opened the door all the way. "Come in. I just need to do something first."

He entered the room and over the scent of rich, American diner takeaway, she smelt the clean scent of man who used a sharper kind of soap and a more mellow kind of aftershave. His longish hair was fluffy from a blow-dryer, and she wondered if he primped for her.

His eyes narrowed, noticing the bloodied rag pressed against her jugular. "You'll need stitches."

"I was about to do that. It should only take a minute."

"Let me do it."

Hermione arched an eyebrow. She'd accept food from him but letting him at her with a sharp instrument, regardless of size, would be foolish. The last time she saw him, she was shot. He may not be possessed, but she hardly knew Sam. From what other hunters said about him, he may look like a pretty boy but was dangerous like the rest of them. Some accused him of being half-demon. An abomination of sorts.

Sam must've sensed her doubt because he said, "I stitch Dean up all the time."

"You understand my reluctance."

"It's difficult to do it yourself."

"I know."

"I get it. You don't trust me. I don't blame you, but it will be faster if I do it."

Hermione cocked her head. "Are you suggesting you're better than me?"

He shrugged. "It's slower to do it to yourself. Yes, the pain is more intense when someone else does it, but it's faster." He reached out and grabbed the wrist holding the rag, and she froze, her instinct telling her to break it.

She allowed him to pull the soiled cloth away and examine her wound. "Please," he said.

She relented and stomped away to the table and sat down. "Fine, but if you so much as poke anywhere you're not supposed to, I'll break every bone in your body. I'm only letting you do this because the ice cream is melting, and I'm hungry and you won't stop pestering me until you get your way. God, do you do this to Dean?"

"Yes. Where should I sit?"

"Here," she gestured to the other seat next to her. He nodded and sat down, picking up the threaded needle she left on the table and sterilized it with the peroxide and heat from his BIC.

"Do you want a drink?" he asked.

Hermione stared at him bemusedly. "It's ten stitches. We're not resetting a bone."

Sam quirked a smile. "Dean would've said yes for a paper cut."

Hermione craned her neck, exposing it completely to Sam. His fingers cupped the left side of her skull, his thumb resting on her jawline to hold her still. "He did strike me as the type of guy with an oral fixation." She clenched her teeth together and sucked in sharply as the hot tip of the needle pierced her swollen, slashed flesh.

"Did you learn about that in psychology class?"

"There was mention of Freud before I graduated from secondary school."

"Right," he said quietly, finishing the first stitch. "In England."

"London, specifically."

Her jugular throbbed from abuse, but Hermione kept her tears in check. Sam had done four stitches so far, only six more to go.

"You know, Dean and I asked Bobby about you."

"Did you? What did he say? I hope all good things," she said, slight amusement in her tone.

"He says you're smart. Really smart. He thinks you're wasting your life hunting and should go to school."

"He says that because I'm a woman, Sam. I'm aware how it hurts all of your little boy hearts when a fellow female hunter dies."

"He also said he wasn't sure why you hunted. In this life, everyone has a reason to hunt."

"Sam…"

"I lost my mom. A demon killed her."

"Azazel, I know."

"And my girlfriend."

Why he felt the need to share anything with her, she had no idea. Was he so curious about her, he'd surface a little of his inner turmoil for a glance at hers?

His thumb that rested on her jaw began to move in a circular motion, she smiled wryly at him and grabbed his wrist to stop him. "I can smell the whiskey on your breath."

"My hand is still steady. Both of them."

After three more stitches, he'd go back to his room, and she could put on a tiny bit of her special cream to keep the injury from scarring to badly

"I lost no one, Sam."

"Then why do you hunt? Who would hunt when they didn't have to?"

"You don't have to."

"You didn't answer my question."

His thumb went back to caressing her skin, and she couldn't move her head away without tearing the new stitches.

"Why do you think I hunt?"

Sam was silent for a few moments, his brow furrowed. "Bobby says you have no record of ever being born."

This was not the first time she'd been questioned about her past. The first time she was arrested was in London a number of years ago, and during her interrogation, the police wanted to know why her records went back only two years.

"I was obviously born."

"Is Hermione your real name?"

"It's the name my parents gave me, yes."

"So you have parents."

"I did say I was born."

Sam tied off the last stitch and cut the thread with her small pair of sewing scissors. He got a peroxide-drenched cotton ball and pressed it gently against the injury. "Are you really twenty-eight?"

"Didn't your brother tell you it's not polite to question women about their age? Especially armed ones?"

His laugh was short and deep. He raised his eyebrows and looked down bashfully. "He did, but he thinks you're jailbait."

She glanced down at his lap and said, "You obviously don't."

Sam moved forward and put his mouth centimeters from hers. He didn't go any further-like he wanted her to be the one to kiss him. Unperturbed, she simply did nothing but smell the whiskey on his lips and tongue until he leaned back into his seat, pouting and obviously miserable. She didn't take him for being an arrogant, narcissistic man like his older brother. Yet, he probably wasn't turned down _ever_ when trying to seek female companionship.

"Is it because of what I did?" he asked in a small voice.

"Well…" Hermione fancied the idea of showing him the surgical scar running up her thigh and placing his massive hand over it, forcing him to feel the unnatural hardness from the metal beneath. She wished to be forgiving and relieve this young man of guilt for committing serious delinquencies under the influence of possession.

She wanted to understand, but there were precautions hunters made to keep from getting possessed. Charms, talismans, amulets, and tattoos were excellent ways of keeping a demon from taking over. She was lucky, though, and didn't need any of those things. A few years ago, while exorcising a demon from a middle-aged banker, the black smoke escaped halfway through the chant and shoved itself down her throat. The demon failed in stealing control of her body. The magic thrummed violently in her veins and forced out the putrid essence and slithered back inside the banker, using the man's mouth to inquire, _'What the hell are you?'_

"I should go. Dean's probably wondering why I'm taking so long."

Sam went to the door, and Hermione rubbed the skin between her brows while she called out. "Hey, Sam?"

"Hmm?" He turned around.

"I'm sorry about Dean."

A wild, affronted expression painted his features. "Who told you?"

"Word travels fast. And…Bobby called to ask if I knew anything. How to get out of a deal. I have nothing, but I did say I would look into a kind of Hex Bag."

Uh oh. She said very bad words. His nostrils flared, so she quickly elaborated. "Certain magic can work without the help of a dark force. I told Bobby that I'd try to find one and get Dean off the grid. There's such a thing."

"But?"

"I can't find it. Even if I did, it would only delay the inevitable."

Sam's face puckered. "No, no. There's a way. There's always a way. I don't care what you say or the demons say or what the Trickster said-"

"What?!" Hermione leapt to her feet and cornered Sam against the door. His back pressed flat against it, alarmed by the abrupt aggression from the small woman. "What did you say?"

"I…"

"You said the Trickster! It's dead! You and your _stupid_ brother killed it!"

He stared at her like she had lost her mind. "It's alive. We thought we killed it, but we didn't."

"Where is it?!"

"We saw him over two weeks ago-"

"Where?!" Hermione barked and backed away from him, her heart pounding wildly. She grabbed her jacket and her car keys from the dresser. Everything else could be replaced. She didn't have time to skip about to tidy and pack up her belongings.

"Broward, Florida. Hermione, you can't go hunt him."

"Watch me. Get out of my way. I have to leave. Now!"

Sam didn't budge. "He is nearly impossible to track."

"You think I don't know that. Move!"

"He's your monster," Sam said and then shook his head. "I can't let you go after him. He's not some child-prankster. He kills people, and he'll kill you."

Hermione grabbed the lapels of his jacket and pulled him down to eyelevel. "How did you find him then? How did you and your brother make it out alive if he kills?"

"He doesn't like to be bothered. You hunt him long enough, he'll come after to you and hurt you."

"I've searched for him for _eight_ years, Sam. I can only _dream_ he'd come after me."

"Hermione…"

"Tell me how to find him, and I will do all I can to get you that spell to hide Dean. I promise."

That seemed to be enough to him because he nodded. "There's a summoning spell. It'll bring him to you, but you're not getting it until Dean gets his."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed.

**To my readers:** Don't be too concerned about who is going to end up with who.

**Warning:** This chapter contains a bit of naughty stuff. Not too graphic by any means but a little risqué.

I apologize for any errors. I'll do a clean-sweep later.

Please enjoy the chapter! Read and Review.

* * *

**Early April 2008**

Hermione hung up the hotel phone and laid back into the fluffy cushions of the bed for a few seconds, relishing the strain taken off her bruised and aching body. In thirty minutes, her room service would be here, and she'd enjoy her first meal since yesterday's lunch. She made a good load last time she swung through Vegas, so maybe she could stay for a couple of days and enjoy the pool and spa and the local cinema. What was playing? _My Blueberry Nights_ looked positively estrogen-friendly, but _21_ looked fine. She should search online and see what else there was to do in this town.

Following a few minutes of resting, she climbed off the bed and stripped. A little bit torn and worn around the edges, but her clothes would be all right. The angry spirit of Anne Wilhelm didn't take kindly to being put to rest forcefully, but that nasty wench was cutting up Honeymooners at that old B&B on Main Street.

While checking her injuries in the loo, she allowed the hot water to run in the shower before hopping in. The rivulets felt wondrous on her skin, and she let them do their cleansing magic on the graveyard dirt embedded into her hair, hands, and underneath her fingernails.

After washing off, she leaned against the shower wall and closed her eyes for a few minutes before shutting off the water and wrapping her hair in a towel. Her room came with a robe, so she slipped it on and padded out in the bedroom and dug for pajamas in her bag and settled on an old, plaid button up shirt that went to her knees. She then carefully combed her hair, wincing at the knots she came across and twisted the tresses up into a bun.

The remote to the telly was found in the bedside table. She opened up the cupboard harboring her entertainment until bedtime and flipped it on and rifled through the channels until settling on the History Channel. Ironically, it was showing a documentary about demonic possession. Twenty seconds in, she knew the entire show was a pitiful attempt at scaring late night watchers.

The food finally arrived at a quarter to eight, and she opened the door to let the server in with the tray. She took it from the young woman and bid her a thanks and goodnight and set it down on the table next to the window. The drapes were slightly pulled apart, so she could see the town as she dined on her beef stew and garlic bread. "Mmm." She licked her lips and sighed contently. Definitely worth the twenty dollars.

Hermione washed her hands and brushed and flossed her teeth, readying herself for bed when she heard a knock at the door. Frowning, she wiped her mouth on a hand towel and went to the door and peered through the spyglass and grunted in annoyance, opening the door and saying, "Seriously. How did you find me?"

"You stole our hunt," Sam stated. "Plus, Jean Potter is a dead giveaway. Using your middle name as an alias…"

"Ugh." Hermione stepped away so Sam could come in. "I know why you came to see me, and all I can say is that I haven't found anything. If I had, I would have called you. But…I do plan on taking a trip to New Orléans in the next few weeks. Always hunts to find there. Anyway, I'll check in the local hoodoo shops down there and ask some questions. See if they can help me. I'll be sure to _not_ drop a name. You Winchesters are getting bad rep these days. With what happened in Wyoming, and everyone knows about Dean now. Ellen is uh…upset." Hermione looked down at her wringing fingers. "And so is Jo."

"So am I," whispered Sam and brushed by her and sat down at the table, eyeing her tray of dishes. He nudged it experimentally and said, "How do you pay for all this? The nice hotels and the room service."

Hermione shrugged and sat down on the bed closest to him, being careful as to sit a certain way, so he couldn't have a gander up her nightshirt. "My secret to keep. Although, I don't always stay in places like these. Sometimes I get stuck with the ones with the suspicious stains, too."

Sam forced a smile. "You'll find that hex bag, right? You promised."

Hermione exhaled softly and gave Sam a tired look. "I said I'd try. If I can't find it, then I can't find it. I'm sorry if it comes down to that."

"Then you won't get your spell."

She looked down at her lap. "Then I won't get my spell, but you'd truly deny me it if I failed?"

Sam said nothing, but his jaw twitched and his nose was kind of scrunching. His fingers tapped on the wood of the table in a fast rhythm. After a minute of this, he sighed and shook his head and stared at her, his eyes travelling from her face to the exposed parts of her legs. She hurriedly covered up the surgical scar on her left thigh with hand and stood to let her nightshirt cover it fully.

"Don't. Please don't," she said calmly.

But he did.

His hand found her knee, and he pressed a long thumb into the fleshy part above, the tip coming into contact with the bottom of the scar.

"Sam," she warned and his palm moved up and grasped her thigh.

He gently needed her leg and said, "I can feel it. The plate. Does it hurt?"

"Not anymore, but you need to…"

"Stop me," he dared and she was surprised by his boldness. His fingers were inching towards the inner part of her leg, tracing patterns on their way.

It didn't feel bad.

"I'm sure your brother is wondering where you are?"

Sam stood up and towered over her, and she realized without her shoes, she came to his chest. Like her, he was wearing plaid only his was green and hers was red.

The fingers returned, but this time they came to her neck and down to her collarbone, landing at the top button of her nightshirt. He bent down and brushed his nose against her hairline, inhaling deeply before taking a step back and shirking his shirt and wife-beater in one smooth extraction.

She covered her eyes and laughed softly, a tad embarrassed from his flawlessly defined torso and seeing that he was in fact demon-less. The anti-possession tattoo above his heart relieved her.

"Sam," she said again, but this time in amusement.

She felt hands on her elbows, and he said, "Lift them for me."

"No." She laughed which stopped instantly when he dropped to his knees and lifted the hem of her shirt up to her belly.

He made a high-pitched chortle and said, "Cute," and skimmed the elastic of her panties with a forefinger and tapped at the clear patch above her right hip. It was her Nicorette patch, having gave up smoking a few weeks ago after trying to run away from a werewolf, only to be tackled and nearly bitten. Luckily, she was able to cleanly stab her silver knife into the thing's chest.

"You like _Lamb Chops_?" she asked and squeaked when feeling wet point swipe above the elastic.

Her underwear was practical and tasteful and fun. She was a hunter, not a model or girlfriend. Cotton was lovely on the bum and the lady parts when fighting or trying to run away from zombies. Silk and satin, in her line of work, were unnecessary. She wasn't sexually active. Hadn't been with a gentleman in…well…a long time. Sex was messy and complicated and doing it casually always led to misunderstandings and disappointment. Surely, Sam knew this. He was an educated bloke and not promiscuous like his brother.

"Yes. Lay down."

Not providing her anytime to answer, he pushed his face into her stomach and urged her bum on the mattress while tugging at her knickers. They slid off her legs, and Sam unhooked them from her ankles and tossed them aside and then stood to place his mouth on hers.

Oh.

Sam was very good at this, and she was having a difficult time keeping up. He kisses were fast and primitive, and it was like he was snogging her with his entire body. With little trouble, she was on her back and being smothered by a giant, and she hardly minded. Her eyes would flutter shut and snap open when his tongue would do something unexpected and new. She sighed in gratitude when he finally ventured away from her mouth, allowing her lips to rest and her lungs to gather in breath.

Teeth grazed her pulse point, and she yelped and wiggled her legs. Molten hot butterflies swarmed inside her belly, and she hadn't felt such a thing in so long, it was like experiencing it for the first time. It was rather uncomfortable and pleasant all at the same time.

Hermione kept her eyes trained on the ceiling. This had gotten entirely out of hand, and she should really make Sam stop, but he was so eager and enthusiastic. Effortlessly, his fingers unbuttoned her nightshirt, and he was making these manly, grunting sounds mixed with appreciation.

She didn't like, though, how her calves were chaffing against his jeans. "Take your pants off," she mumbled.

"My shoes. It'll take too long."

Despite Sam's latching onto a very sensitive place, she scoffed and glared down at him. "Planning your quick escape already, are you?"

He detached and replied, "No. I just don't want to waste any time."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"I can't wait."

"Take off your pants. I know you want this, but at least make it enjoyable for me."

Sam's features darkened and the next few words he said weren't cocky in the least but dangerously promising. "Oh, I will," he said and easily flipped her over and she got a mouthful of fluffy pillow. Her eyes widened, and her stomach clenched unsurely. She raised her head and craned it to stare at Sam who was eying her backside in consideration.

"Don't even think ab-"

SMACK!

"Ow!" She shoved her heel into the side of his leg which he barely registered. "That is _not_ enjoyable!"

"I must've done it wrong." He cupped her bum and rubbed soothingly, the stinging lessening little by little. "Sorry."

"Hmmph," she noised and pressed the side of her face into the pillow and looked at Sam from the corner of her eye. "If we do this, we do it simply. I don't need to be spanked. I've been a good girl."

Sam lifted up the back of her nightshirt and pressed open-mouthed kisses to the base of her spine, taking perverse little nibbles from the tops of her rump. "I don't know about that," he murmured into her skin.

* * *

The rising sun shining between the parted curtains landed on Hermione's face. She pinched her face and rolled over, feeling each sore, achy part of her body. Her eyes slit open and was surprised to see Sam still beside her and deep in sleep. He was on his back with his head turned towards her, and the sheet and comforter were twisted around his torso. Brown, fluffy hair was in disarray and stuck to the pillow supporting him.

Hermione closed her eyes and yawned, stretching her limbs and groaned as they screamed in protest. Especially her legs. Oooh. Ouchie. Sam may come off all gentle and considerate, but he truly was an animal. Phew! His stamina was insane, and his refractory period was laughable. The man didn't have one, it seemed like. He just kept going like the bloody Energizer Bunny!

"Sammy," she moaned sleepily with her hands above her head, trying to work out the kinks, "you're in the wrong line of work. _Oh_!" Several pops travelled up her spine, and she melted back into the mattress, boneless. She messaged her eyelids and yawned again, her belly growling.

"Food." Gingerly, she slithered out of bed and muffled every pained noise she wanted to make. When she finally got to her feet, she decided it would be best to hop from one foot the other. Simple walking could prove to be excruciating. She definitely needed to take a couple of ibuprofen, but first, breakfast. She hopped to the other side of the bed, careful not to disturb Sam, and picked up the room's phone and ordered room service.

"The blueberry waffles. Yes. Can you add chocolate chips? Mmmm. And an extra side of whipped cream and another side of sliced strawberries." She glanced at Sam's slackened, sleeping face, and she sighed. "Double that order, would you? Oh, and some lemon tea, please. No milk for that, obviously. Good. Thanks." She hung up the phone and tiptoed towards the bathroom for what was sure to be the most painful piss of her life.

It had all been good fun in the moment, sure, but Sam—dear Samuel—was overwhelming, anatomically speaking.

Hermione inspected the markings littering her body while standing in front of the mirror. Some bruises were from the hunt, but many of the others were from Sam. Her lips were tender and a tad swollen, and there were hickeys all over her neck and in other more shameful places.

After washing her hands, she slipped on her robe and went back into the room, stumbling over Sam's jeans. She toed off the garment and was hit with an idea, and hesitation eluded her. She dove for the trousers and dug through the pockets, coming up with his wallet and cellphone. Choosing the wallet first, she opened it and fingered every possible compartment, only seeing a few twenty-dollar bills encased in a money clip, a few identification cards with different names, and a few credit cards and insurance cards, and two condoms. Deeming the wallet useless, she shoved it back where it went and started in on the phone and cracked Sam's lock-code on the second time with a 012479.

In the past ten hours, Dean had called eleven times and left six messages and fourteen text messages. Curiosity got the better of her, and she went through the texts, most of them asking where his brother was.

_Geesh, Sammy. How long does it take to get beer?_

_Did you stop for food? I'm starving._

_I want pie._

_Sam?_

_Where are you, dude? Not at the liquor store and not at Biggerson's._

_You went to see her, didn't you? Dammit, Sammy. She's trouble!_

Hermione scrolled down a little ways and got to the last text, sent at three in the morning.

_You slept with her, didn't you?_

She exited out of Sam's inbox and found his documents and came upon a file under Doc7. Inside was a list of ingredients that had to have been for a ritual. She read the list, her eyes narrowing with each ingredient.

Blood. A lot. And fresh.

She spared Sam a look to make sure he was still sleeping and quickly found a pad of hotel paper and a pen, jotting down the information and stowing it away in her purse. Her mind numbed at the prospect of attaining that much blood for the spell.

It wasn't a summoning spell but instructions on carrying out a sacrifice to a god. A human life for a visit from Loki.

Hermione sat down at the table and studied Sam's sleeping form, a deep pensive frown etched on her face. He was never going to give her the spell. The man saw an opportunity for an exchange but had no real intention of fulfilling his end of the bargain. Not if it required bleeding a civilian dry. She suspected that even if she had found the hex bag that'd get Dean off Lilith's grid, Sam wouldn't give it to her. Blood on her hands would be blood on his, too.

When breakfast arrived, Hermione took the cart from the server and wheeled it into the room. The clanking of the dishes roused Sam from his slumber. He smiled sluggishly at her and stretched his long arms over his head before scratching his chest. Silently, she put together her meal, piling her waffle with her extra serving of whipped cream and strawberries and smothering it in maple syrup. She then sat back down at the table and started and said, "Got you some breakfast. Eat up. I'll be leaving soon."

"Thanks," he said and got out of bed and put on his discarded boxers. He took a dish from the cart and joined her at the table. He grinned in surprise at the artistic creation on her plate. "You have a sweet tooth."

Hermione licked her lips, erasing any evidence of cream and syrup. "You were never going to give me that spell, were you, Sam?"

His fork paused midway to his mouth for a brief second and then continued its journey to his mouth. He chewed and swallowed before answering. "No."

"But you still wanted my help in saving Dean."

"I wasn't going to allow you to kill someone, Hermione. The spell-"

"I went through your phone," Hermione interrupted unashamedly, ignoring Sam's affronted expression. "I found it."

He put his fork down and got up from his seat. "I'm going to go. Dean's probably wondering where I am."

"He knows."

"You called him?"

"I went through your text messages. You don't give your brother enough credit, Sam."

"Thanks for breakfast." He pulled his trousers up and buckled his belt.

A bit peeved, Hermione gripped her butter knife. "Is that the only thing you're thankful for?"

"Last night was a mistake. Obviously."

"Oh, really!" She leapt to her feet at that and marched towards him, her wagging finger almost touching his. "You came here, Sam Winchester, for one thing and one thing only. You got it, but now that you had it-"

"You invaded my privacy."

"Well, you invaded a lot more than that. My trust, for one. Me, for another."

Putting on his plaid shirt, he said coolly, "I'll be gone in a minute, and we won't have to see each other ever again. Forget about helping Dean."

"I'll still look."

Sam grabbed his shoes and sat down at the edge of the bed. "You saw the spell. Are you going to do it?"

"No." Hermione shook her head and messaged the back of her neck. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Good. Whatever beef you have with him, it's not worth killing over or being killed over. Trust me on that."

A few minutes later, he was gone and Hermione went into the loo to look in the mirror and whispered, "You've come this far. You can't stop now."

To be continued...


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N**: Thank you, my lovely readers and reviewers. Also, a great thanks to my followers and those who put this fic on their favorite list.

Enjoy the chapter. Read and Review. I apologize to those who may be upset that there's not enough of the Winchester Boys in it. I do plan on trying to remedy that, but it really just depends on where these fingers take me. Another thing, I'm sorry for the sort-of-shortness for this chapter. It's an epic one and deserves to be longer but just didn't happen that way. Anyway, read on, my lovelies.

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I-240 was packed with speeding cars, and Hermione pressed on the gas to keep up. It was nearly sunset, and she'd probably have to pull over in a couple of hours and find a room for the night. Memphis was right behind her when her cellphone buzzed on its placeholder above the radio. She scoffed when seeing Sam's number pop up on the screen and almost let him go to voicemail but changed her mind and flipped the phone open and put it on speaker.

"What?" she said bitterly.

"_Hey there, princess."_

Hermione rolled her eyes and pushed more weight on the gas pedal. "Dean."

"_How's Louisiana?"_

"I'm not there yet."

"_Good,"_ he crooned. _"The thing is, you don't have to go to New Orleans."_

Pursing her lips inquiringly, she asked, "Don't I?"

"_No." _His tone turned into annoyed growl._ "Sam lied to you."_

"I know," she replied curtly.

"_I meant about the hex bags. We already have them."_

"What?!" Hermione nearly slammed on the brakes. Instead, she tightened her grip on the steering wheel and glared at the cutesy, yellow Volkswagen Beetle in front of her.

_"Not going to go into detail how we got them, but we've had them for a couple of months. Before you even offered to get them for me and Sammy, I hear."_

"I've been…" Hermione exhaled loudly, groaning and cursing Sam Winchester's existence. Why would he lie about that?

"_I know. I know. Believe me, when I found out, I gave him a verbal beat-down. He feels bad now."_

"Why did he lie? If you already have them, then why need me? He was never going to give me that ritual, so what's the bloody point?"

Dean chuckled nervously. _"Thing is about my brother, he likes you. Or did like you. I'm not so sure anymore. I think he believed that if you two were able to stay connected over something, he'd have reason to see you more often. Maybe you'd find something better than the hex bags we got."_

"And he couldn't say he wanted to see me more often? He couldn't ask me to find something better? Dean!" Hermione spat. "Your brother pisses me off!"

"_Yeah, I'll get you a t-shirt, too. Another thing, though."_

"Hmm?"

"_Sam said you weren't going to do the summoning spell. I just want to make sure that's all cleared up."_

"I'm not doing it," she lied. "I'll keep tracking him."

_"Forget about him. He's not like anything you've hunted. You are way out of your league with this. Going after him, especially alone, is suicide."_

"This has been a lovely chat. You take care, Dean. I mean it." Hermione ended the call and debated whether to get off on the next exit and start on the ritual or keep driving to New Orleans. For the sake of Dean, she decided on the latter. Perhaps there was something better to be found. She hardly knew the man and only knew his brother in the biblical sense, but she couldn't live with herself if she allowed a fellow hunter to die without putting as much effort into his saving as possible.

**June 2008**

Raleigh, North Carolina

"May I say you are breathtaking, Miss," said the man across from Hermione. His accent was smooth like southern honey on a warm day. It didn't hurt that his teeth were white, and his dirty blond hair was groomed perfectly. He also had a 401K, spectacular benefits from being an oral surgeon, and a Hybrid Escalade. His ex-wife lived in Austin with their seven year old daughter, and he was thirty-eight years old.

She smiled and bit her bottom lip, cupping her chin and staring at him shyly. "You're a charmer, Mr. Thomas," the solid, American R's feeling funny on her tongue.

"I only say the truth. And, please, call me Geoffrey."

"All right." Hermione softly chuckled and took a sip of her club soda. "Geoffrey."

"Jean," he said. "You don't hear that name too much anymore. I like it."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

The waitress arrived with their food, serving Hermione her chicken salad and Geoffrey his halibut. While drizzling her Italian dressing on the dish, she studied the way her companion took a lemon wedge and squeezed the juices onto his meat and inspected how he sliced into it with immaculate precision.

"I'm glad we finally got to meet. I knew after we first messaged each other that I wanted to meet you," he informed before taking a bite of his fish. "What was it like growing up in Massachusetts? I think I've asked this question, but I hear it's a nice place."

"It is." Hermione nodded and gathered some lettuce onto her fork. "Cold in the winter, though. Is Savannah as wonderful as it sounds?"

"Better. I hope you get to see it someday."

Licking her lips, Hermione then replied without missing a beat, "I hope I do, as well."

"So I've been dying to ask," said Geoffrey while wiping his mouth with his napkin. "How does a girl like yourself resort to dating sites?"

Hermione arched an eyebrow and grinned in confusion. "Meaning?"

"Look at you. Are those Massachusetts boys blind or stupid, if you don't mind me asking?"

She stared down at her salad and nibbled on her bottom lip, tracing a pattern on the table with a fingernail. Shrugging, she whispered, "I just haven't had such great luck with men. I decided to see what other places had to offer. Maybe there were gentlemen out there with great vision and impressive intellect. I'm not disappointed."

Geoffrey beamed and sipped at his wine. "You sure you don't want a glass for the evening. It'll relax you."

"I don't want to be all fuzzy-brained driving back to my hotel. Plus, I have an early flight back home tomorrow." She sighed and smiled delicately. "I don't want to go. Is that silly of me to say?"

"Then don't go. Stay. Just for another few days."

Hermione shook her head and giggled. "I can't. Work. Obligations."

"The office can't go another day without you?"

"I'm very important. No, they can't." Bashfully, Hermione stared out the window beside them, looking at the dark, glistening waters of the lake. "But we don't have to say goodbye tonight."

* * *

"I like your car," Geoffrey said and ran his hand along the dashboard. "It's a smooth drive and eco-friendly."

"Thank you." Hermione gently pushed harder on the gas, running a yellow light. "Sorry. I'm a little excited. I've been waiting for this night a long time. Phone calls and messaging aren't enough"

He put his hand on her stocking-clad thigh and squeezed. "Me, too. How far away is your hotel from here?"

"Just a few more minutes."

His hand slid higher, and he said, "I love the dress you wore for me tonight. These stockings are lovely."

"You should see what else I wore for you tonight," Hermione stated breathlessly and then added, "or didn't wear."

His fingers were about _there_ when she took a sharp, violent right into an alley and saw in her peripheral vision Geoffrey's head colliding with the passenger side window. The impact cracked the glass, and he cursed, "What the hell!"

Hermione unbuckled her seatbelt and balled up a fist, punching the man in the jaw. He swore again and cupped the injury and barked, "What are you doing, Jean?"

She slammed her elbow into his crotch and then his sternum and then opened the glove box and pulled out her taser and dug it into his side before turning it on. He gurgled in response, pulsating bodily and then slackening. She put the taser back into the glove box and got out of the car and walked around to the passenger side, opening the door and catching Geoffrey as he nearly toppled to the filthy pavement below. With all her strength, she dragged him to the door of the neighboring building. It was abandoned and condemned and perfect for what she had in mind.

Once inside, Hermione maneuvered him into the middle of the wide, open area where she had her summoning ritual set up. Carelessly, she let go of Geoffrey, ignoring the loud_ thunk_ his body made against the cement flooring, and checked for any errors in the chalk markings she drew two hours previously. Everything seemed perfect.

This was it. Twelve years in this wretched place done with...quite possibly.

Hopefully.

By sacrificial obligations, Loki was bound to return a favor. Dropping her back in her universe shouldn't be terribly hard. It hadn't been that difficult to get here to begin with.

Her heart slowly ascended into her throat and hammered uncontrollably in anticipation and dread. Inhaling deeply, a tear escaped her cheek as she knelt in front of the markings and ceramic bowl full of ground up coyote bones. With shaking fingers, she lit a match and tossed it into the bowl and quickly grabbed the knife by it and chanted the spell. She got to her feet and gripped Geoffrey and awkwardly held him up by his scalp. He stirred and jolted in her arms.

"What's going on?" he asked sluggishly.

Her grip on his hair tightened, and she put the blade to his throat. "Stop!" he begged. "Please. Don't do this. You don't have to do this."

"I'm sorry," she said quietly and was about to slash the man's throat when she heard the door she came through being opened and closed.

"Please help me," cried Geoffrey as his weakly struggle, his sobs wretched. "Oh, God! She's going to kill me. She's going to kill me."

Sam emerged from the darkness and stepped in front of her makeshift altar, his 1911 Colt in one hand. His other was up in a peaceful, surrendering gesture. He looked strong and handsome in his blue plaid shirt, fitting jeans, and boots. In the most delicate, careful voice, he said, "Don't do this, Hermione. You're not a murder."

Like a dam breaking, tears flowed freely down her cheeks but she kept the knife flush against the man's neck. She swallowed thickly and tried to pull herself together by breathing evenly. When she finally had a grasp on her emotions, she said, "And you're not Sam."

He stepped forward and patted his chest. "It's me and whatever you think is important enough to kill this man over, it's not."

Hermione shook her head. "Sam Winchester is holed up somewhere drinking himself into oblivion." A sob caught in her throat. "It's you, isn't it?"

The man smirked and holstered his gun and morphed into a man only a few inches taller than herself with brownish black hair and twinkling dark eyes. He brought his hand up in front of him and snapped. Geoffrey blew apart in her arms. Copious amounts of blood and strips of meat sprayed onto her face, black cocktail dress, and fake Jimmy Choos. A startled gasp escaped her lips, and she dropped her knife and stared down at her attire and the bits of human tissue stuck to it.

He just...killed Geoffrey by _snapping_! Oh, God, what was this thing?

"Mmm." Loki shook his head as if disappointed. "I really wanted to make him suffer, you know? It's not every day I allow myself a serial killer. Ooh, the things he did to those women. You picked a good one, missy. Some think I prefer the pure and untainted. No. It's the monsters I dig. Mostly."

"I need your help," Hermione managed shakily as she peeled of a patch of Geoffrey's muscle tissue from her forearm.

The smirk melted off his face, and his eyes glittered dangerously. "I don't help anyone."

"If you could simply-"

Loki waggled his finger at her and laughed. "I _know_ who you are."

Hermione frowned. "Do you?"

"You've tried to find me for a _long_ time. The trouble is…" A presence appeared behind Hermione and the Trickster's voice whispered in her ear, "I am everywhere and nowhere." The man in front of her dissolved like a mirage, and she turned around to look at the new image. His clothes were different but aside from that, he was the same. He cringed at her. "Eugh! Carrie got nothin' on you, sweetheart." His thumb and forefinger come together, and Hermione bristled, thinking he might do to her what he did to Geoffrey. However, he dropped his arm. "Nah. You look hot this way."

"Hear me out."

"Uhhhhh, no."

"Please. I'll give you-"

"I don't make deals, sweetheart. Besides," he shrugged, "I already know what you want. Like I said, I know who you are, but...I can't help you."

"If you know, then…" Hermione shook her head. "Can't or won't?"

The Trickster grinned. "I like you. You're sassy. But you got me. I _won't_."

Twelve years of being away from her world, and no one ever knowing what she was and never properly connecting with anyone. Eight years of searching for some powerful-enough being to send her back home, and it's was coming down to this—a bloody _'I won't._'

"I don't belong here," she strained. "Don't you understand? I can't have a life here. I'm a _freak_! If people knew what I was, they'd kill me!"

The man cocked his head to the side and pursed his lips in mock sympathy. "They wanted to kill you back there, too. Or have you forgotten? Mudblood."

Hermione closed her eyes. The way he said that horrid word was not at all spiteful or putrid but merely a remindful phrase. And she did remember. She remembered vividly of how she arrived to this realm and the unpolluted animosity behind it. "I have definitely _not_ forgotten."

"Yet, you want to go back? Forget about that place," he said lightly. "You've been doing fine here."

"I can't. It's my home. I have a family there. My parents. They think I'm dead."

"And you are. Twelve years is a long time."

"I know that, but they'd understand. I would explain…"

The Trickster shook his head. "No. I'm not going to take you home."

"Why not? Please. I beg of you." Unable to stop herself, more tears fell down her cheeks again, cutting tracks in Geoffrey's blood. She hadn't wept this much in ages. It was like her body couldn't withstand holding back any longer.

"And bore you with the details?" He batted a hand at her dismissively and then stared at her for a long moment. He shoulders then sagged and his tone grew softer. "Look, I know this sucks, but I won't help you. What I will do is tell you something that I know."

Sniffling, Hermione knit her brows together in confusion. "What…"

He waggled his eyebrows, "You think you're alone here. What if I told you that _you_ weren't? Go home, kid. Put those pretty ears to the ground and listen."

Hermione gasped when he disappeared right in front of her. She stomped her foot. "Shit! You son of bitch! Come back here!"

She jerked when he reappeared. He waggled his eyebrows again. "A gift to help you through the difficult times ahead. You're going to need it." His arm lifted and extended as if throwing a ball. An invisible force collided with her chest, and she landed flat on her back, the wind knocking out of her. Electrical currents vibrated through her body, and she hissed in pain. The discomfort became so much to bear, her vision clouded until ultimately blackening. While unconscious, her body twitched and contracted for almost an hour before finally relaxing and her mind succumbed to a deep slumber.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Thank you readers and reviewers and followers. Thank you to those who put this fic on their favorite list. :) I sure do appreciate it. Also, a big thanks to those who are giving this fic a chance even if they aren't familiar with the show Supernatural or the HP books.

**To answer a few questions:** Yes, the Trickster is Gabriel. His eyes look dark to me, but if they're not then oh well. Yes, to the action, adventure, sex, blood, and gore! :) Yes, the Trickster meant there are other witch(es)/wizards(s). More information on the veil will come forward in later chapters.

Read and Review, please. I hope you enjoy!

* * *

The unpleasant, somewhat cold cement pressing against Hermione's face and body finally registered to her unconscious mind. Her eyes fluttered open and focused on the blood of Geoffrey, and the memories of the Trickster flooded her mind like an out of control, broken faucet. A tear escaped and landed on the dried stains as she struggled to move. Every bone and muscle hurt. After a solid ten seconds, she was able to move onto her back and stare up at the ceiling. The unlit light on the ceiling flickered on, the buzzing sound of electricity filling her ears. The sounds sped up and the light grew brighter to the point that the bulb shattered. Barely managing a gasp, she was able to cover her face as shards of glass poured down upon her exhausted frame.

After a few trying minutes, she got to her feet, abandoned her shoes, and limped out of the building. The sun was out but thankfully no one was sharing the alley with her. She rested against her car briefly before oozing inside and grabbing the keys from the drink holder. She shoved it into the ignition and turned, screaming when the radio short circuited, smoke billowing out of the CD dispenser. Frowning, she reached out to touch it when her airbag set off and hit her in the face, knocking her out.

When she came to, her body was heavier than she remembers and the sun is brighter, too. Quickly, she realized that it wasn't the sun but another light, and the white-ish yellow hue was fuzzy and unwelcomingly reflecting off the surrounding white walls. Lethargically, she attempted to move and found that her hands were fastened to something. She looked at her right hand and saw a handcuff around the wrist. Breathing catching in her throat, she saw that her other wrist had the same treatment.

Two men walked in, one in scrubs and the other in a suit and a trench coat.

"Do you mind if I question her?" the one in the suit asked the other.

"I can't guarantee how lucid she'll be but yes."

The man nodded and stepped forward and towered over her hospital bed because that's where she was. In the hospital. She wasn't sure how she got there or what happened. All that she knew was that her wrists were cuffed to the railings, and she could barely move let alone barely think.

"What happened?" she croaked. Oh, she needed water and loads of it.

"I was hoping you could tell me, Miss Granger."

"How do you know my name?"

The man nodded and chuckled. "Oh, I know a lot of about you, Hermeee…" The man pulled out a file from his coat and flipped it open, "_ooooneee_."

"It's Hermione."

"Course it is," he said and waggled the folder. "This doesn't even cover a fourth of what we have on you. Do you realize how much trouble you're in? You were discovered in your car covered in blood, most of it not even yours. We know you killed Dr. Geoffrey Shane. My people identified the scraps you left him in at that building."

"No, you don't understand-"

"He was the Goodnight Murderer. We know. His DNA matched with the evidence taken from his prior victims. As much as I am elated he's off the streets, you can't be dismissed. We know you made a fake online-dating account under the alias of Jean Potter to lure Shane in. We saw what you drew on the the floor." He held up a picture of her blood-drenched altar. "I got this case from Pharrel. Remember him? I thought he was joking when he claimed you a Satanist. Also, my found several different credit cards and insurance cards under different aliases in your car. In trunk, at least six unregistered firearms and some weird-ass knives. Let's not mention the handful of warrants asking for your arrest, not only here in America, but in England, too. Oh," he paused and grinned maliciously and pulled from the folder a photograph, "and my favorite. You're a prime suspect in over twenty murder cases, especially this one." He held up a picture of a face Hermione hadn't seen in five years and turned her head away from the officer and vomited.

"Ugh," she heard over her retching. "What'd you give her?"

The doctor replied, "Her muscles were incredibly inflamed, and her nose was broken. I gave her a heavy dosage of pain killers and an anti-inflammatory. Nausea is quite common."

Sweat gathered at Hermione's brow as she retched, and the doctor called in some nurses to help clean her up. She read their badges and kindly asked one of them what day it was, and they said it was the tenth of June. For three days, she'd been unconscious. Bloody hell, what did the Trickster do to her?

Once the nurses left, the officer resumed talking. "It'd be easier to send you back home. Have the Brits deal with you. The paperwork you require is _awful_. Get some rest, Granger. You're not going to get much in the next few months."

* * *

**Early August 2008**

Bobby's droopy couch felt wonderful against the front part of her body. Seven weeks in a jail-cell and sleeping on those rock-hard bunk beds nearly drove her batty. Not to mention the lovely cellmates she had, as well, who just were as sweet as a fresh cup of hot chocolate on a chilly Christmas day.

God, they were awful! That one woman, Trixie, was on trial for killing her three year old. Hermione had half a mind to leap from her top bunk in the night and smother her with those scratchy, flat pillows. Dwelling in that forsaken place almost made her believe she was hunting the wrong monsters.

Two month ago, when Hermione was released from medical care and into the lovely hands of the authorities, she immediately began planning her escape. She refused to deal with her trial and die in prison with several life sentences, here in the States or in England, so she set to work on sneaking out of jail. Six weeks and she had nothing to show for it. The seventh week, she discovered what the Trickster had done to her. She'd been eating her lunch, or more like picking at it, when Pandora, her other cellmate, came at her with a plastic spork. Easily, Hermione grabbed the woman's wrist and throat and pushed her back enough, so she could get up from her seat and properly defend herself. Pandora leapt for her again, and Hermione grabbed her arm, keeping it straight and stretching it away from her behind her back with a foot on her hip. Guiltily, she had contemplated breaking the woman's arm but instead knocked her face against the edge of the table. The guard arrived at the last end of it and unsheathed her baton and went to strike Hermione with it when the upper half splintered off before even making contact with any part of Hermione's body. It was like it hit a solid barrier, and at the time, Hermione had wished for one.

That night on her bunk, Hermione dared to extend her finger and think of fire and wrote her name in the air, leaving behind flaming letters. Tears leaked out of her eyes, and she laughed. Her magic was completely alive. Since arriving to this world, she could only master small, frivolous things like opening locked doors and cooling down her piping hot tea. With no wand, she believed it impossible to channel her magic properly. She had tried wandless ages ago, but it hadn't worked and ended up getting many nosebleeds and headaches in the process.

Five days later, she lay on her raggedy mattress again looking up at the ceiling and listening to the retched snores of her cellmates. She could simply hop off the bunk and go to the door and open it. She could open them _all_ without breaking a sweat, but there were guards out there patrolling. No, her plan involved something that scared and excited her. If it went wrong, it could be deathly.

Hermione's eyes had fluttered closed, and she crossed her arms above her chest. Breathing in deeply, she thought, _"Bobby's junkyard,"_ and felt as though she was being squeezed into a noodle like consistency, whipped around, and blown up like a balloon. She had tried landing on her feet, but the momentum was too forceful, and she sank to her knees and vomited into some brush. When her stomach had settled, she looked around and saw that she was behind a pile of beaten up cars next to Bobby's fence-line. She wobbled towards his house and knocked on the door. Thankfully, the light was still on. It had to be nearly two in the morning.

Bobby looked a right, pathetic mess with blood-shot eyes. He smelt of several kinds of alcohol and body odor. And though he was utterly pissed, he still had enough sense to test her skin with a silver blade and to make her drink some holy water. His house was a sty, empty liquor bottles everywhere. Hermione made no comment, but the next morning after a good night's rest in the extra bedroom, she cleaned up the place a bit. She knew once she left it would go back to the way it was, but she wanted to show some gratitude. Bobby was housing an escaped murder convict.

Now, she was on the couch, and the television was on, _The Simpsons_ showing. She wasn't really paying attention but listening to Bobby in the other room, slurring on the phone and pretending to be part of the FBI for some hunter out there. After a while, she tuned him out and thought about the Trickster and what he said about going home and putting her ears to ground. Could there be more of her kind out there? Illogical! Impossible! Absurd!

Hermione sighed miserably. The relishing high of having access to her full powers had depleted. She had her magic, but she wasn't back in her world. The one thing that was supposed to help her refused, and she was stuck forever. With this magic. In a world where people like her kill people like her. Even Bobby, the generous man that he is would shoot her in the back if he knew what she was and what she could do.

Bart slugged Lisa on the telly, and Hermione groaned. She had to get back to England, but she needed a new ID and paperwork. She, most of all, needed to rest and regroup. But not at Bobby's.

**Late November 2008**

"Gwen?"

Hermione pulled her eyes away from the peaceful, outside view of falling snow and looked at the nurse. She looked familiar. Her nametag said Jenny, but Hermione always forgot the staffs' names after her morning cocktail.

"Your brothers are here to pay you a visit."

"My brothers?"

_Oh no! She forgot she had brothers, too!_

Horrified, she gazed passed Jenny and saw Sam and Dean standing side by side in their boots, plaid, and jeans. Sam's hair was _awful_, and Dean…

_Dean!_

"No," Hermione whimpered and shook her head. The drugs were making her hallucinate again. The doctors, they said if that were to happen again, she needed to tell them. She got up to do just that, but Jenny grabbed her shoulders.

"It's okay," the woman cooed. "It's okay, Gwen. Sit back down."

"Hey, Guinevere," said Dean, the name rolling awkwardly of his tongue. "It's _me_ and Sam."

"Come join her at the table. She was just finishing up a puzzle. You're sister really has a knack for them, and _you_," she said to Hermione gently, "sit back down."

Hermione nodded and slowly took a seat and stared at her unfinished puzzle of the Buckingham Palace while Sam and Dean sat in the two seats across from her. The table was so narrow, that their shoulders touched.

"I'll leave you three alone. You need anything, Gwen, you let me know," said Jenny and flashed a flirtatious smile at the boys before sashaying away. Dean unashamedly glanced at her scrub-clad bum.

"You're not real," Hermione mumbled and picked up an unattached puzzle piece and found its spot with the rest of the assemblage.

"Hermione," Sam started, "are you all right?"

"What kind of name is Guinevere? Is there a Lancelot here?" Dean chimed and laughed, forced mirth filling his miserable green eyes. She blinked and reached over, pressing a finger against his nose, smashing it.

"So real this time."

Dean grabbed her hand and patted it. "Hey, it's me. I'm alive, okay. It's a crazy-ass story, but I won't bore you. But we came here to come get you out of this loony bin."

"Bobby sent us," Sam informed somberly.

"He said you've had the quite the summer." Dean chuckled. "Getting arrested, jail, escaping, telling him you're going off for a vacation but end up taking a hunt in this place. You salt and burn the remains but come back here."

"Why?" asked Sam. "You're not crazy."

Realizing that, indeed, Sam and Dean were sitting across from her, Hermione messaged her stinging eyes and said, "You wouldn't understand, but I needed time. Time to think. I've hunted for years, and I'm just…tired. I'm just tired. But I won't be here forever. I'll probably leave after the New Year. I want to go back to England."

"No, no. We need you here," Dean said. "Do you have any idea what's going on outside?"

"It's snowing."

"He means hunting-wise. It's bad out there," Sam said and Hermione frowned at him and pressed her eyelids closed and opened them again, squinting.

"You look different," she said.

"So do you." He almost smiled.

"They must be feeding you good here," commented Dean. "They wouldn't happen to have burgers, would they?"

"It's the drugs." Stoned out of her mind, but she was aware that she was carrying two extra stones since the last time she saw them.

"What they got you on?" Dean snapped his fingers in front of her face twice. "Valium, Thorazine, Prozac."

"Among others. What did you say about _out there_? What's going on?"

"Lilith is still a bitch, and seals are breaking," he said.

"When we say seals, we're talking about the 666 seals. If sixty-six of them break, the devil is let loose," Sam explained.

"The world becomes his playground," Dean added.

Hermione's eyelids fluttered shut, and she inhaled sharply. She slowly reopened her eyes and said, "Dean, there is no such thing as the devil."

Dean opened his mouth to reply, but Sam cut him off with a, "There are angels, too. They're dicks."

"Junkless ones," his brother muttered and folded his arms. "Like Ken dolls."

"So we're going to get you out of here and back to Bobby's. Get you off those drugs, and get you back in shape."

Sam pulled out a folder from inside his jacket. "I stole your file from the psychiatrist's office. Look, Dean." He showed Dean something on the file. "It correlates with one of the seals breaking."

"Mmm." Dean slightly nodded and leaned forward and dropped his voice. "You may have thought you were losing your mind when certain people—dead people from your past—showed up all in one place trying to kill you. Truth is, it was one of the seals. Hunters all over were-"

"Stop." Hermione cupped her forehead. "You've gone off the plot, both of you. When do we leave?"

* * *

Twenty minutes out of Portland, Sam turned off Dean's radio and cleared his throat. "You said you wanted to go back to England. What happened?"

Hermione, with her forehead resting against the chilled glass of the backseat window of the Impala, ignored the question. She was not going to tell the Winchesters that during her vacation in New Jersey, she had a breakdown, realizing that she was never going to get home. To hell with what the Trickster said about there being others like her out there because she was stuck here for the rest of her pathetic life. Fourteen years of being in this bloody awful place. Fourteen years wasted. Why couldn't she have dutifully accepted that this new world was her life when she was sixteen and scared out of her mind? Life could've been so much simpler. She could've been happy again. There were opportunities.

And then she took that hunt at the psychiatric hospital. She got rid of the problem, but then her own surfaced. Faces she couldn't save sprung up and wanted revenge. Even worse, _his_ face—_his_ spirit—came to kill her. She bolted out of the abandoned house she'd been squatting in and went back to the hospital, checking herself in by being honest. Doctor Lynn was more than eager to admit a patient who claimed to be seeing dead people.

"Yeah, what happened?" Dean encouraged.

Shaking her head against the fogged glass, Hermione mumbled unintelligibly and shifted to an upright position and noticed something appear in the corner of her eye. She turned her head and screeched when seeing a dark haired man in a tan trench coat and slightly rumpled suit sharing the backseat with her. Immediately after, the sound of an electrical shortage echoed throughout the swerving car. Dean pulled over, shouting out curses while Sam waved at the smoke coming from the radio.

"Dammit, Cass!" Dean cursed and hit the steering wheel. "Your angel mojo totally murdered my tape player. How am I going to drown out Sam's voice on the way to Bobby's when I got no Metallica?"

Sam shifted in his seat and turned around to face Hermione. She was twisted up in her seatbelt and her back was pressed against the door with her arms by her head, chest heaving underneath the stolen hospital robe. "You okay?"

"No."

"This is Cass. He's a-"

"I'm an angel of the Lord," the dark haired man said in a disturbingly low, gravelly voice. Hermione frowned at tilted her head to the side and he did the same. His hair reminded her of someone she knew long ago, but his eyes were very blue. And even through her weakened, dulled magical senses, she felt the power radiating off him. If he, indeed, was an angel, he was unlike anything she ever pictured. Where were his wings? Under that creepy, child-molester trench coat?

"Hello," Hermione squeaked. So there was opposition in all things? If there were demons, angels existed. If there was a devil, God was real. She suddenly felt very small, very frightened, and extremely humbled. "I'm Herm-"

"I know who you are."

She did _not _like the way he said that. Instinctively, she scooted her fingers to the lock-nut of the seatbelt while the other found its place on the door handle. "You do?" she asked carefully.

"I know _what_ you are," he said vehemently and Hermione bolted out of the backseat and ran. Cold, snowy air assaulted her cheeks and seeped through the thin material of her clothing. She only ran twenty yards or so before risking to Apparate. The drugs were still in her system and lowered her magical abilities, but if she thought really hard then maybe…

She landed on her back on a semi-soft, extremely cold surface and heard the sound of waves crashing into seashore. Stiffly, she rolled onto her stomach and saw bits of snow and sand before vomiting. Once the nausea subsided, she got on her hands and knees and looked up and saw that she was on Atlantic City Beach.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** I know it's been a few weeks, and I apologize for the delay. I just moved me and my load into a new place, and I'm facing the hardship of having no internet so...here's chapter six. Hope you enjoy.

Also, I know some of my readers may be getting impatient because Draco hasn't surfaced his cute face yet. Relax. He'll be coming around. I can't just plop him in front of Hermione when she's got other things going on. Let's be honest. If I did, she'd probably shoot him. :)

I'm sorry for any errors. I'll probably come back and tidy it up some more. Until then...Chapter 6! R&R!

* * *

Teeth chattering, Hermione pressed her forehead against the apartment door and tried to absorb the warmth of the hallway. She had to walk two miles in the freezing cold to get here, and when she arrived to the building, strange looks from people in the lobby greeted her. Thankfully, everyone stared instead of asking questions of why a loony person in a robe and soft pants came waltzing inside. She then took the stairs and came to her flat. One would say it was her home-base. New Jersey was the place she came to when needing rest and extra money in her pocket. This apartment was always equipped and ready to house her when needed. Unfortunately, she did not have the keys on her.

She cupped the doorknob and willed it to unlock. After hearing the clicks, she walked into the unlit flat and turned on the light. For a moment, she feared the bulb shining above her was about to burst but it merely brightened, dimmed, and brightened again.

The first thing she did was go into her office and boot up the laptop and then dug through her bedroom closet and pulled out a black case with two IV bags. She took one and hooked it on the transportable rack she ordered online a couple of years ago. Shedding her robe, she rubbed the crease of her elbow with a sanitation cloth before wrapping the stretchy black strap around bicep and making a fist. Without hesitation, she stuck the needle of the IV into the awaiting vain and taped it to her arm. She wheeled the IV rack to her office and sat down at her desk.

Ironically, there was more information on angels than she imagined but couldn't find anything to keep them away. As a witch and a person comfortable with history, she was aware that mainstream religion despised witchcraft. It was probably why that Cass seemed so _friendly_ towards her.

An hour into researching, Hermione tore her focus away from the computer screen and dug through her drawer and pulled out a cellphone and connected it to a charger. Almost instantly, the device was hit with an avalanche of text messages and voicemails. Scrolling through them, she saw that a quarter of them were from Bobby, Dean, and Sam. The rest were from Jo and Ellen, most of them received before October.

Hermione dialed Ellen's number and winced when hearing, _"You better have a hell of an excuse, young lady!"_

"How's everything?"

"_Oh, no you don't! Where are you?!"_

"I'm in New Jersey. I just got baaaa…" Shit!

"_Back from where?"_

"Ellen."

"_No. I get word you got arrested, escaped jail, and took off God knows where."_

"I was hunting."

"_The hell you were. Tell me where you are in New Jersey. I'm coming."_

"No." Hermione pulled out a small mirror from the drawer and studied her reflection. "You don't want to see me like this."

"_Like what?"_

"I've just…" Hermione set down the mirror, "had a terrible year. How's…How's Joanna?"

"_Look,"_ the woman grumbled_, "you're not the only one who's had it tough. Demon activity has become a main priority. Hunters are dying left and right. Good people. For a while there, Jo wouldn't get out of bed. Now she's doing all right. Rufus, an old friend of Bobby's, is training her. They're up in Montana someplace."_

Hermione softly exhaled. "Ellen?"

"_Hmm?"_

"I'm going back home."

"_What? Why?"_

"I've thought about it for a while now. It's just…I think there may be something there that I need to find."

Begrudgingly, Ellen replied, _"And if you do? You'll stay there?"_

"I hope not. Give me Joanna my best, would you?" Hermione hung up and pulled out the battery, destroyed the SIM card, and disabled the GPS.

When the IV emptied, Hermione replaced it with the second bag, shivering when the cool liquid filled her veins. The drug-filled haze was gone, and she could think clearly. It was like having clear vision after months of a greasy film wrapped over her eyes.

She dove back into researching angels but came up with nothing to ward them off. If the circumstances were different, she'd call Bobby. It was risky, though. If the angel told Dean and Sam what she was they probably told Bobby. He wouldn't help her now. He'd most likely feel betrayed by her and hate her for being a witch and a liar.

She was on her own completely now.

Closing out of the research, she went to work creating a new identity. Guinevere Evans was being retired.

* * *

**Mid December 2008 **

Hermione jogged along the shoreline of Atlantic City Beach. Having put away her earphones, she heard the soothing sound of icy waves crashing into the shore. She was a bit sweaty underneath her winter running clothes. Three weeks ago, her workout clothes and pajamas were the only things in her flat that fit her. With the morning cocktails gone and the fattening cafeteria food, Hermione was down a stone. She had another to go before getting back to her normal size. Granola, yogurt, fish, fruits, and vegetables haunted her.

Breathing in the crisp, salty air, Hermione licked her lips at the thought of cheating and sneaking into that bakery on her street and snatching a freshly baked blueberry muffin with a cup of hot chocolate. She scrunched her face at the thought and increased her speed, feeling the unpleasant burn of her leg muscles and a painful digging in her side. She should sprint more often, anyway. It's not like she's going to _jog_ for her life if something or someone is chasing after her.

Speaking of…

The sound of running feet coming up behind her touched her ears. She turned her head and saw a guidette dressed in black running gear and smiled politely. Her hair was a richly dark brown and long, thrown back in to a no-nonsense ponytail. Her skin was clear and lightly bronzed. Not like the other orange girls running around these parts of the city. The woman smirked back and said, "Hermione, right?"

Digging her heals into the sand, Hermione frowned. "Do I know you?" she asked breathlessly.

"I'm a friend of Sam's."

"Are you?" She stole a step back, feeling the dark energy rolling of the young woman. "I sincerely doubt that. _Christo_."

The woman's eyes flashed black, and Hermione threw a punch. The demon blocked it and then grabbed her arm and twisted behind her back. Hermione stomped her foot on the demon's and was pushed away. She whipped around and was solidly pushed in the chest, her breath shooting out of her. She lost her footing and fell onto the icy cold sand.

"I'm embarrassed how easy that was," said the demon.

"Me too," Hermione groaned. The back of her head hit something hard and cracked it. The demon knelt down and slithered her hand behind Hermione's injured head and yanked on something, pulling out a leaking bottle of tequila with bits of sand plastered to it. She tossed it aside and unzipped her fanny pack.

"I have something for you from Sam. Like I said, I'm a _friend_ of his. He asked me to track you down and give you this." She wrenched Hermione's palm to open and shoved a hex bag into it.

"If you think I'm keeping that, then you're nine kinds of stupid." She let it fall to the sand and struggled to get the demon off of her. God, her head killed.

"Keep it. Don't keep it. I don't give a rat's ass, but Sam asked for a favor, and I complied. He's worried about you…whoever you are and asked me to deliver my special extra crunchy bag to keep you off the grid to demons _and_ angels."

Hermione managed to free her right leg and curl it against her chest before knocking over the demon with it. The woman rolled into an elegant summersault and crouched, preparing for a fight. "Sam would never align himself with a demon," she said while struggling to get to her feet and wondered how she was going to fight this thing, aside from pummeling it into the beach. All of her hunting gear was two miles away, and she desperately needed a pain killer. She wondered if there was a way to use her magic against her. She'd never used her magic on the supernatural before, and it frightened her too much to try. She opted for a hunched over position with her arms slightly extended away from her body, telling the demon she would listen but was ready to fight if necessary.

"I'm not like other demons. He trusts me. We share the same goal. Lilith's head on a platter."

"I'm just supposed to believe the Winchesters sent a demon to help me."

"No. Just Sam. He said you got on the angels' bad side or something and asked me for help. Let me say, you're a hard one to pin down. New Jersey of all places. Anyway, I have better places to be than here. Take the hex bag or don't. Burn it, for all I care. But when the angels come knocking on your door ready to smite you, don't blame anyone but yourself."

Hermione blinked and she was gone. The hex bag was still by her feet. Nibbling on her bottom lip, she bent down and picked it up, pressing the cloth under her nose and inhaling. Coughing, she mumbled, "Damn. That's good stuff."

* * *

Hermione walked into her office and set her keys down and placed the small paper sack with her muffin on the desk. She shoved the hex bag into one of the top drawers and went into the kitchen to start a pot of tea. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled and she nonchalantly opened the drawer in front of her and pulled out her 9mm and whipped around and pointed at Sam who had knife improperly held between his fingers. Snorting, she lowered her gun. "For Gods' sake, Sam, at least pretend you want to kill me."

"I had to be prepared."

She raised her brows. "With a knife?" The humor deadened. "A demon found me this morning at the beach. Know anything about that?"

Sam pressed his lips into a thin line and surprisingly informed, "She's a friend. She knows how to make those hex bags. It's okay. She won't be able to find you again if you keep it."

Hermione shook her head. "This is all kinds of wrong."

"She wants Lilith dead. I can't afford to be picky on who my allies are. _What_ my allies are," he defended, his eyes narrowing at the last part.

"I'm a _what_ now?" Hermione asked somberly and folded her arms. "That angel. What did he tell you?"

"Castiel? Aside that you are a witch, not much. He told Dean and me that you are dangerous and…"

"And? Do you think I'm dangerous?"

"He said you don't belong here," Sam said softly, sympathy in his eyes.

"He's right," she admitted and turned away from him. "Sam, they may think I'm dangerous, but he's done nothing to stop me from being here and could've found me the moment I disappeared in front you, but he didn't. What does that tell you?"

"I...don't know," he whispered.

"Me neither," she said and changed the subject. "I've listened to the news and did research on the seals you talked about. The tragic incidents and catastrophes. Those are seals, I'm assuming."

He nodded.

"Do you have any leads?"

"Aside from Ruby? No."

Rolling her eyes, Hermione hissed, "The demon, I presume. Yes, trust her. Bet it's easy with that arse of hers. Or whosever she decided to invade."

"For one," Sam said, his voice raising a few octaves, "the body's empty. Another thing, the body she chose has no effect on me."

"You are terrible liar. God, Sam. Have a little pride in yourself! I _know_ it's not hard for you to find a companion for the night." She reached behind her head and gingerly touched the goose egg formation below her bun. Speaking of that satanic tart...ouch!

"You okay?" asked Sam.

"Fine. I just need…" Hermione pointed to her fridge and walked the few steps to open the freezer, pulling out the ice tray.

"Ruby hurt you."

She put the tray next to the microwave and pulled out dishrag from the drawer beneath it. "She was a demon, and I'm rusty. There was a bottle of tequila on the beach, and I fell on it. I'll be fine," she explained and grabbed a handful of ice cubes and put them in the center of the cloth. Gathering the edges, she put the makeshift ice pack on the tender, swollen bump and sat down at her small kitchen table. Sam joined her and he reached one long arm around and covered her hand with his massive one. By doing this brought their faces a good six inches away from each other. The smell of lightly creamed coffee and aftershave wafted towards her nostrils. She inhaled and sighed. "You need to go."

Sam smiled fully at her, flashing his dimples. "Yeah?"

"Before Dean wonders where you are."

"Dean always wonders where I am."

She chose not to comment on that particular piece of insight. "Fine. Before your disgusting girlfriend shows up and hacks me to bits."

Sam went forward and captured her top lip with his mouth and then nipped at the bottom one and breathily divulged, "She'd want to join."

She put a hand on his chest to stop him but it somehow ended up resting on his neck, and he kissed her again. Her hands fell from the icepack, and Sam let it fall to the tile floor, chips scattering everywhere. Her eyes fluttered close as he latched on her bottom lip again, this time nibbling before flicking his tongue underneath the top and then poked the tip of hers. An embarrassing squeaking sound gurgled in her throat, and he laughed throatily, his mouth enveloping the tip of her tongue and suckling it gently.

Dirty boy!

Gasping, she pulled away and felt the heated blush stain her cheeks and neck. She shook her head as Sam took deep breath of his own while he found the zipper of her jacket and pulled down until separating the article completely. "This is a very bad idea," she whispered. "We mustn't. Complications, remember? And…I haven't even showered. I'm sweaty from my run."

For some unexplainable reason, during her rant, she oddly ended up on Sam Winchester's lap, straddling his legs and her jacket was on the floor. His right hand gripped the side of her spandex covered leg, right above her knee and slid it underneath and upwards, cupping her bum and giving him a little more access. Smoothly, he started moving as his other hand grasped her opposite hip, encouraging motion from her.

"This is…Sam!" Hermione laughed from the weird sight they must've made and from the pleasing, tightening feeling in her lower tummy. She pressed their foreheads together. "What are we? Teenagers? Of course, that probably wasn't long ago for you?"

He growled and lifted her, setting her on the table. He hurriedly unlaced her running shoes, taking them off but leaving her Christmas tree socks on. His fingers obscenely groped her legs and found the elastic of her running pants, pulling them off with a few smooth tugs. The next thing to go was her underwear.

She expected him to undo his belt and unzip his trousers but instead sat back down.

Oh!

Ah!

"Uh…" she moaned and pressed the heels of her palms pressing into her eyelids. Her teeth bit down on the collar of her running shirt to muffle her screams. She forgot how talented Sam was!

* * *

_Fifteen Minutes Later_…

The light above the shower flickered, but Hermione barely noticed the dipping light from behind her closed eyelids.

"Are you doing that?" Sam asked breathlessly, his teeth grazing the top of her ear.

She groaned in delight when Sam lifted up her right leg and set her foot on the shower's shelf and continued what he was doing two seconds before. Hot water from the shower cascaded down on them, and she pressed the front of her body against the wall, opening herself more so Sam could get deeper.

"Ah!" she exclaimed and titled her head back and stared up at the light. It flickered again. "I c-can't h-help it!"

Sam laughed. "You broke Dean's radio. Not Cass."

"Yes!"

The light didn't flicker again but steadied for a few seconds and then started to brighten.

"Oh! Oh, Sam! Wait!"

"You're close. I can tell."

"Yes, but…AHHHHH!"

An electrical popping sound echoed over the running water, and the light diminished, the sturdy porcelain covering cracked. Smoke came out through the rim, and there was a black stain on the inside of the cover.

Exhaling loudly, Hermione dropped her leg and fell back against Sam, his arm enveloping her middle. He craned his neck and brushed small kisses on her temple, cheek, and jawline. She yawned and said, "That was way better than last time."

"Tired?"

"Mmhm."

"Want me to wash your hair?"

"Only if you let me cut yours."

His dimples emerged, and she tried to smile dazzlingly in return but settled for brushing her knuckles over his anti-possession tattoo and murmuring, "I think I'm going to miss you when I leave. Even though I hardly ever see you."

His hand found hers and their fingers intertwined. "Stay. Come and spend Christmas at Bobby's with Dean and me. I'll explain everything to them."

"How can you when you don't even know the whole story?"

"Then tell me."

She shook her head and against her better judgment, she allowed Sam to stay after they finished their shower. They both slipped into comfier clothes, her in sweat pants and a t-shirt and him in his boxers and undershirt, before crawling into bed and drifting off to sleep. An hour later, she awoke to find Sam gone and the sheets cold. Blowing a curl out of her face, she mumbled grumpily, "Don't be so surprised, Hermione."

Sam then popped his head in her doorway. "You awake?" He settled beside her on top of the covers and kissed her on the cheek.

"I thought you left."

His lips travelled to her neck. "I got you something."

Knitting her brows, she asked, "You did? What?"

He opened one massive palm in front of her face revealing a small, rectangular black box with a silver ribbon tied into a bow. "Open it."

"Sam," she groaned incredulously and tentatively took the gift and tugged on the ribbon before pulling off the top half of the box. Inside was a thin silver chain with the anti-possession charm.

"Merry Christmas," he said and with nimble fingers, hastily fastened the bracelet around her wrist.

"You…" Hermione scoffed and shook her head. "You got me a Christmas gift? Why?"

His fingers slid beneath her jaw and into her hair and he kissed her before touching their foreheads together. "I like you, I guess."

"Yeah?" Hermione couldn't help but smile. "I couldn't tell."

The backs of his fingers caressed the side of her face and he said, "You're coming back here after you do whatever you think you need to do in England."

"Are you telling me what to do?"

"Give me a chance. Give _us_ a chance."

"Us?" She cupped his face and got her knees and stared into his eyes. "What about your icky girlfriend?"

"She's...not going to be around forever."

"And you think I will? There's too much baggage for us to ever be _us_. With me. With _you_," she said pointedly and softened her voice. "I can _feel_ a change in you, Sam. I felt when you snuck up on me in the kitchen."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I sense it." She brushed a stray piece of hair out of his face. "Whatever ability you have is powerful…but it's not good."

He pulled away from her touch and got off the bed. "I have to go."

Hermione nodded solemnly. "Of course."

Sam disappeared into the bathroom for a few minutes and came back out in his street clothes. She forced a small smile at him and twisted her wrist. "Thank you for the gift."

He gave her a curt nod and left the room. She covered her face and swore before sprinting after him and putting herself between him and the door. "I will give us a chance if you stop whatever it is that you're doing," she promised.

He put a hand on the door and then hung his head, shaking it. "I can't."

"Then I won't," she said softly and opened the door for him. When he left, she closed it and sank to the floor and wondered if she had made a terrible mistake by letting him leave.


	7. Chapter 7

**January 2009: Downtown London**

The alleyway was dark and dank, save the light shining by the door a ways down. Scanning the area to make sure she was alone, Hermione slowly walked towards the door and paused in front it to shake off the bitter cold before entering Vincent's Villa and was greeted by the smell of sautéed garlic, cheesy sharp roux, grilled meats, and baked bread. The sound of porcelain dishes clinking against hard surfaces assaulted her ears, and she purposefully marched by the chefs and servers, ignoring their glances and found herself in the backroom where a tall, black-haired man stood by a rectangular table with a rectangular case on it. He smirked at her and flipped the latches of the case and opened it before turning it around to show her what was inside.

Hermione's shot him a bemused look and picked up one of the trinkets. Her finger caressed the trigger and she said, "Tranq gun?"

"It's all I could get on such short notice, Granger. Bleedin' call me two hours ago saying you arrived like I ruddy knew you were coming. Gotcha the knives, didn't I?"

Putting the tranq gun down, she gingerly lifted a small, triangular blade and critically assessed the sharpness of the point.

"That little birdie'll look fit around your pretty ankle. Got the lot. Both silver and iron. They'll do well when you're out and about. How was the States, love? You were there longer than you said you'd be."

Hermione put down the blade and picked up the tranq again before sliding it in the back of her jeans. "Very true, Hamilton. I'll take the lot and will be back in three days. You better have my guns."

Hamilton closed the case and walked around the table to put his arm around Hermione. "Have dinner. You'll see our Bolognese is better. Top that with a glass of wine, you'll go to bed a happy girl. You're too skinny. Papa'll throw a fit when he sees America didn't fatten you up."

They went back to the chaotic mess of the kitchen, and he sat her down at the chef's table. A waiter came by and winked at her while pouring some red wine into her awaiting glass. He did the same to Hamilton's and when he left, Hermione asked nonchalantly, "Come across anything out of the ordinary in these past six years? Something I should keep an eye out for?"

"Demon activity has increased. Not terribly. Not like the States but some. No increase in ghosts, ghouls, zombies, and the like. Um…" He shrugged and then snapped his fingers and pointed at her. "You know, there's been an increase in missing cases. Teenage girls, mostly. We find them, Junior and I. But it's too late. We have to…" He dragged a finger across his neck and grimaced. "This whole _vampires have feelings_ shite is really mucking things up for us and giving mums and dads heartache."

The waiter returned with a basket full of hot breadsticks. Hermione smiled in gratitude and then went back to asking Hamilton questions. "Anything else. Anyone showing up on the radar?"

"Aside from your local demon-worshipers?" He shook his head and then stilled, revelation washing over his features. "Now that you mention it...but, Granger…"

Hermione leaned closer. "What?"

"I can't really say it's our jurisdiction."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Hamilton sighed. "London is facing a madman at the moment. A serial killer. The authorities can't catch him, and neither can we."

"It's not your job. What does this have to do-"

"Here's the thing. Junior and I happen to be following a lead a year ago. We thought we were dealing with a nest. Come to find out, it was this lunatic's hideout. From what we could see, it was demon-worship of the worst kind. The git sprung up out of nowhere. He had a cloak on, but I had never seen magic like that."

Hermione sipped at her wine casually. "That sounds like your jurisdiction, Hamilton."

"It's out of my league. That's what it is, Granger. I'm going to need more than I have to put him down."

"I'll put him down." Her dish arrived and Hermione grabbed a fork to dig in. "Get me all you have on him."

"I have nothing. I know where his old hideout. He's gone now."

Hermione shoveled a hot bite of Bolognese into her mouth and nodded. "You're right. It's better."

"Junior would murder me in cold blood if I let you go after this unbelievable sod alone."

"And you think I've partnered up in America? I need a change from the run of the mill ghosts and werewolves and demons. I've been gone for a long time. Let me make it up to you by ridding London of this son of bitch."

"There she is. There's the girl I know who needs to prove to everyone that she's better." His voice dropped into a whisper. "The hideout was in an old abandoned building on Charring Cross Road."

"I know where it is." Hermione covered her mouth, and her stomach churned. This was it! The Trickster was right! "I know where it is. Hamilton, get me those guns."

* * *

The next morning…

Beads of sweat trickled down Hermione's forehead and she pressed it against the frosted glass of her sitting room window and stared out and the frigid morning. The sun was rising and its rays were hitting the partly cloudy sky and reflecting blinding light through her window. Squinting, she lowered her eyes to the slushy streets of London and studied the pedestrians rushing to start their day.

"Where are you?" she whispered, her warm breath fogging the glass. "Who are you?"

The Trickster hinted she was not alone, but a part of her honestly believed she'd return to the States, kicking herself for believing that prat. Not even three hours later after leaving the airport, she'd been given proof by Hamilton that there was merit to the Trickster's words.

She didn't sleep a wink the night before and when she dressed in running shorts and a sports bra for a run on the treadmill, her mind was packed with questions. Who was this man? Did she know him once? Had she heard of him at least? Why was he killing girls? Bloody hell, why was he killing at all?

It peeved Hermione that she'd have to treat this like any other hunt for the most part. As in, she'd have to kill him. If he couldn't help her get back to her world or provide any useful information, she'd be alone again. This time, indefinitely.

Pushing herself away from the view, she padded into the kitchen and opened up the fridge, revealing a few takeout boxes from Vincent's Villa and two slices of tiramisu. Hamilton sent her home with some pizza last night, so she grabbed a delicious cold slice of margarita and eyed the two bottles of wine he'd also given her before grabbing a glass of water.

Once her breakfast was finished, her discarded cell phone buzzed on the treadmill. Seeing it was Junior, she flipped it open and said, "Hello?"

_"Sorry I missed you last night, sweetheart. Was in Surrey taking care of a nasty spirit."_

"We'll see each other soon."

_"How about now?"_

A knock on the door echoed throughout the flat and Hermione chuckled lightly into the phone before hanging up. Peeking through the spyglass, she saw Junior stick his tongue out at her. Rolling her eyes at his childish behavior, she opened the door and was ambushed by a pair of long, muscled arms covered in a brown leather jacket.

"Look at you," he said in that gravelly voice of his, slapping her on the bum before closing the door behind him. "Lookin' fit. Driving those Yanks spare, I imagine. Got any grub. Haven't eaten yet. Just got in."

He let her go and bolted towards the kitchen. "Help yourself to the pizza, but don't you dare touch those cakes." By the time she caught up to him, his arse was on the counter and he was shoveling her tiramisu into his mouth. He moaned as he swallowed. "Mama, I miss you" he hummed sacredly.

"Oh, Junior." Hermione folded her arms and soaked in his presence, wincing at the scratches around his neck and on his face. "You're filthy. You're getting graveyard dirt everywhere."

Junior shrugged. "Sorry. I'll send a cleaner up later. How's the flat, anyway."

"It's good. Exactly how I remembered it." She pointed in the direction of the sitting room. "New telly, though."

"Plasma. Great for rugby games. Football game tonight. I should come over after your hunt."

"My hunt?" Hermione inquired slowly. "I'm not hunting today. Your brother gave me a tranq and a few blades. I can't do much with those."

Junior swallowed the last bite of his cake and pressed a fist to his mouth, burping, before sliding his fingers into the inner part of his jacket and pulling out a folder. "Our good, young gents at Oxford are currently suffering a minor problem." He burped again and continued. "There appears to be a succubus on the loose. Three lads are dead. Two of the victims are nineteen and the other is twenty-one."

Taking the folder from him, she flipped it open and scanned the newspaper clippings and the photographs of the young men. "Three deaths aren't minor," she said. "Nor is a succubus. These all happened within the last three weeks. Why hasn't this been taken care of yet?"

"Thought the first death was alcohol poisoning. Didn't think much of it. Second one, I knew. Papa doesn't trust the boys on this one, though. We've tried scrounging up Alexia, but she's tied up with Patrick in Dublin helping the locals deal with a pack of banshees. Shite, but all the straight girly hunters abandon ship and went where it's dirtier. Some of them are in the States, Canada, Mexico. Tania went to Moscow and Francine is in Kyoto, last I heard."

"I get it." Hermione closed the file and wiggled it. "I am apparently hunting today."

"You'll off that bitch in no time. Practically child's play."

* * *

Knuckles aching from the blows given to the succubus' face, Hermione hurriedly dodged the things claws by leaning backwards and unsheathing a sturdy splinter of holy wood, twirling around and slamming the sharpened tip into its heart. The thing that looked like a comely, twenty year old woman howled and fell to the floor of the young Daniel Davidson's room. Said Mister Davidson was unconscious and completely naked on his twin bed. Next to him was the succubus' twin sister, and she was stirring.

Catching her breath, Hermione yanked the holy wood out of the succubus' heart and watched as dark maroon smoke poured out of the wound and then dissipated with a shrieking howl. Not wasting anymore time, she then threw herself on top of the other creature. Ten minutes ago, she discovered there were two monsters instead of one and that these twins shared everything to looks, clothes, and victims.

The crimson-stained holy wood went towards the thing's heart, but the succubus pushed her off and onto the floor on the other side of the bed. Hermione landed gracelessly, her head slamming into the window ledge. Ignoring the sharp throb exploding throughout her skull, she leapt to her feet and faced the monster. Tightening her grip on the stake, she clenched her teeth and took a swipe at the succubus. It jumped back and then forward, gripping Hermione's shoulders and sending them both through the window, breaking the glass. For about three seconds, Hermione felt cold wind nip at the back of her neck and ears before, her body slammed into an untouched, fresh layer of snow. The thing on top of her hissed in pain and fell to the side, the holy wood sticking out of its side.

Hermione stared up at the night sky, her body screaming in agony. It took her a few seconds, but she was able to suppress the pain and use her abdominal muscles to sit up, allowing only one small whimper of protest.

They were outside of one the dormitory buildings, and pop music could be heard from one of the upper levels. Hermione cursed when one of the high story windows opened and a young woman popped her head out. She held a plastic cup in her hand and exclaimed, "Oh, my God! Are you two all right? Her face disappeared and Hermione heard, "I think two girls fell out of a bloody window, Derek!"

Like a blur, the succubus pulled out the stake from her abdomen and rolled over onto all fours, looking much like a feral animal with wild, blonde curly hair framing an angular face. It lunged and Hermione hastily climbed to her feet and delivered a kick to the thing's injured side. It howled in pain and struggled to stand, the wood with its sister's blood in a tight grip. The monster attempted to stab her with it with a clean, jerking plunge but Hermione grabbed its wrist and turned it outward until hearing a crack. The stake dropped and the succubus punched Hermione in the jaw which only stung a little. She was able to deliver a number of small blows to the monster's stomach before unsheathing a small blade from her belt and slitting its throat. As the thing bled out, Hermione gingerly bent over and picked up the holy wood, forcing it into the succubus' chest.

* * *

"You should've told me it was your first hunt in over five months," Junior scolded and sat next to Hermione on the couch, handing her a chilled bottle of Smirnoff. They'd missed the game but a late night talk show was on. "How are you feeling?"

She pulled the bloodied tissue away from her nose and fingered her upper lip. "I think it stopped. I'm fine. Blast. She didn't even hit my nose."

"Well, that's not a good sign," he commented. "You're rusty. A silly, little thing like a twin shouldn't have thrown you off your game, love."

"I know." She arched her back and tilted her chin to the ceiling, a series of pops rolling down her spine.

"Ready for the drugs?"

"Mmhm"

He took the awaiting pill bottle off the coffee table and popped the lid, giving her one. She tossed it back with some water but went back to sipping her vodka.

"Hamilton told me you're jonesing for that devil-worshipping lunatic. The one killing the virgins. You aren't ready."

"I can take him."

"You sure about that? He's quick. I'm not even sure if he's bloody human."

Hermione rested her elbows on her knees and shook her head and sighed, more at herself than Junior. He was right. The lunatic wasn't human, at least not by this world's standards. Neither was she because she hid her abilities well. As in, she hardly ever used them. Since the Trickster strengthened her magic, she'd hardly used it.

Maybe that's why all electronics short-circuited around her when she got frightened or too excited. Her body took advantage of the rise in adrenalin and exerted the energy in order to maintain homeostasis. Disapparating and unlocking doors wasn't enough to blow off the steam, so-to-speak.

She stared at her fingertips and tried to recall all the spells she learned in school. The ones she could, she imagined the magic shooting from her hands and creating a number of possibilities. She was a witch and hunting like a hunter on this case was not going to suffice.

No, she wasn't worried about facing this murderous git at all. Since he was a wizard, he certainly could die like one.

_Avada Kadavera_, she mused.

"Look," she started and licked her lips. "It's not like I'll see him tomorrow on the tube. I imagine it will take a little while to track him down."

"Just be careful. If it gets too thick, back out. Promise me."

"I promise," she lied.

Junior stayed in the spare bedroom that night, setting the alarm on his phone for every two hours to kindly wake her concussed self. When the morning came, he left for home and she forewent a run on the treadmill. Instead, she dove into her closet and pulled out the small dresser. Behind it was a false section of wall which she maneuvered to the side, revealing a medium-sized, dusty trunk. She pulled it out and gripped the golden lock tightly in her hand.

"_Alohamora_," she whispered, the lock clicking out of place. She opened the trunk and saw a film of dust blanketed on the objects. "_Scourgify."_

Hermione pulled out a stubby, thick candle, a small bag of crushed raven bones, and an even smaller bag of human ash. She closed the trunk and wandered back into the living room where a map of London resided on the coffee table. She opened the bag of bones and ash, sprinkling them on top of the map before placing the candle against her chin and saying, "_Incendio_."

The wick ignited and she started to recite the location spell. She had heard of it years ago from one of her first witch hunts but never used it. As she told herself repeatedly, most-if not all-the magic in this dimension was dark. Just this once, though, she'd allow unknown forces to take control and direct her where she needed to go. She'd allow herself this one sin.

Hermione brought the flame to the edge of the map and in milliseconds, the entire paper was aflame. "Out!" she exclaimed and the fire disappeared, leaving behind a perfectly round circle of untouched map. Soho.

**That Afternoon**

"I should've known," Hermione said as she stood outside of Bewitched and Bewiccan, staring at the sign in aghast. Scoffing, she knew the place was most likely a home to the owner and a place of business. It was a refurbished, somewhat large cottage next to a dentist office and a bed and breakfast.

She gripped the gate of the picket fence and opened it, walking up the slick, brick walkway. She paused when seeing a small garden next to a birdbath with frozen water inside the bowl. Chiltern gentians with luscious, green stems poked out of the thick layer of snow, and Hermione pursed her lips. "Well, that's perfectly normal," she mumbled and continued up the pathway and tentatively opened the door. A bell jingling as she entered into the heated shop. The door closed behind her, and she walked further into the main area of the cottage, examining a glass shelf nearby. A series of vials, all with different colors, stood in rows. She picked up a pink one and uncapped it, taking a sniff.

It smelt like…

It smelt like…

"I see you found the Love Potion," a deep, masculine voice said from behind her. She whirled around and saw a handsome man about early forties (perhaps early fifties even) with salt and pepper curly hair closely chopped around his ears. He had a five o' clock shadow and the brownest eyes she'd ever seen. His teeth were immaculately straight and white, and he wore a snug, black knitted sweater with cuffs folded partly up his forearms and a pair of khakis.

He looked oddly familiar but she couldn't place him for the life of her.

"It's a popular one after Christmas," he added and smiled roguishly. "Though I have a difficult time picturing you in need of such a thing, miss. A lovely young woman like yourself should have no trouble in finding a lad."

She set the vial back down carefully, "I don't. I was just looking. I like pink."

"And you'd look lovely in such a color. Let me show you something." He beckoned her with his fingers, and she followed him to a jewelry case filled with necklaces, bracelets, earrings, and brooches. After unlocking it with a key he had on his wrist, he pulled out a white gold bangle bracelet with pink stones imbedded into it.

"It's…" Ick! "Pretty."

She offered her wrist and he was about to slip it on when he saw Sam's bracelet. He fingered the anti-possession charm before placing the bangle right next to it. "I get your kind in here every once in a while. _Hunter_s. I run an honest business, but what my customers do with their purchases have nothing to do with me."

Hermione touched the bangle while her eyes narrowed on his left forearm. The rolled up cuff of his sweater partially exposed a black, serpentine-like figure. She swallowed thickly and grabbed his hand. "I believe you. I'm not here to question your business ethics. It's not my place."

He stared befuddled-like at her before relaxing. "Thank you."

"I'm just here for a couple of supplies is all."

"What do you need?"

"Crushed raven bones."

"I think I have that."

"A candle."

"Take your pick."

"And human ash."

The man chuckled nervously and raised his eyebrows. "I'm not sure about that last bit, miss. I didn't think you hunters messed around with that."

"Do you or do you not have human ash?"

Hesitantly, he backed away from the counter. "I'll see what I have in the back." A minute later, he returned with a palm sized urn, a small bag of raven bones, and a long stem candle. "I don't usually carry this in large amounts. I try to keep my customers on the straight and narrow if you know what I mean."

"Yes."

"Right. Well, let me just ring you up. Oh, the bracelet…"

"I want it."

He laughed nervously again and nodded. "And so you shall have it."

They went to the checkout counter and as he was ringing her up at the till, he cleared his throat and asked, "So…you're looking for someone?"

"No."

"The ingredients are common for location spells. I only assumed…" He put her things in a pink paper bag and handed it to her.

"I'm merely replacing them," she replied and set the bag down by her feet and quickly grabbed his wrist and pinned it against the counter and then yanked the tranq gun from her pocket and pointed it at his face. To the untrained eye, it looked like her precious 9mm she had to leave in the States. "Because I already found who I'm looking for."

He tried to get his arm back but she dug her nails into his skin, drawing blood. He hissed in pain and barked, "I don't practice magic, all right?! I only bleedin sell it!"

She pressed the tip of the tranq gun under his nose, and he stopped squirming, his dark eyes widening in fear. She then lowered the weapon and brought the muzzle down to his trapped arm, and she brushed it against the halfway-exposed tattoo on his skin. He bristled and she asked quietly, "What did they call you before you came here?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about!"

"Do you want to know what they called me?"

"Let me go and get the hell off my property!"

"Mudblood."

The man's face went blank before his eyes slit and his mouth morphed into a feral snarl, a flicker of recognition drifted across his features. "_You_," he hissed vehemently and then cracked a wicked smirk. "They called me Lestrange. Rabastan Lestrange."

In the lifetime she hunted, Hermione had faced more terrifying things than this man, yet she was trembling in her boots. This man. This monster was the brother-in-law of the woman who hexed her through the veil. The gun trained on him began to shake, and he laughed. "Has the filth lost all her courage?"

"No!" she growled and flicked the safety off. "How did you get here?"

"Same way you did," he purred. "The veil."

"How do I get back?"

"Get back?" His laugh turned maniacal. "This is all just _perfect_. I was going get someone else, but you come in all ready for the taking."

"What are you talk-"

Rabastan lifted his free hand from underneath the counter, his palm full of white dust and blew on it. Within a second, the cloud hit Hermione and her body slackened and she fell on the floor, her vision going black. The last thing going through her mind was 'Sandman's Sand.'

* * *

A/N: :) Sorry for any errors!

Thank you readers, reviewers, followers, and those who put this fic on their favorite list.

So sorry Draco didn't show up in this chapter, but how many of you thought he would? It's okay. No judgment. I did kind of make my readers believe it was just going to be Draco. R&R! Tell me your thoughts and questions.


	8. Chapter 8

A buzzing noise stirred Hermione awake, and she became instantly aware of how cold she was and shivered. She opened her eyes and saw a ceiling with bulb-less lanterns and realized that she was on a cement floor in an abandoned building. Her leather jacket was gone, and her wrists were manacled down. The left sleeve of her thin, black polo was bunched up around the crease of her elbow, and she could barely make out the bleeding, letters etched on her stinging skin.

MUDBLOOD

Blinding hatred coursed through her veins, making her body tremble. She was going to rip into Lestrange and break every bone in his body and relish every snapping sound they made!

The buzzing returned and was coming from her right, and she noticed a man laying down beside her. His wrists were manacled as well, and he was unconscious. Her heart leapt to her throat when recognizing his crooked nose. But instead of billowing black robes, he wore a smart black and grey tweed suit with black polished loafers. Instead of greasy, longish hair, it was cut and groomed and clean.

"Snape," she whispered hoarsely. He didn't stir but the buzzing was coming from him and sounded like a cell phone going off in his inner coat pocket.

Voices echoed off the walls, and Hermione tried to listen but could only distinguish a man's voice. American, nasally, melodic, and gravelly. Much like a wheeze. She swallowed and tried to calm down by studying her surroundings as best as she could. While sweeping her vision from left to right, she recognized where she was. The abandoned building on Charring Cross Road. The killer's previous hideout and the place she used to visit all the time after passing through the veil, hoping and wishing every time that she'd find her way home.

"Ah, Snow White awakens," the man from afar rumbled. He was tall and had a gaunt face, a beard, and a buzz cut. He walked towards her, stopping by her feet to show her the, long gleaming knife in his hand. "Your skin is superb," he purred. "I've carved up people for millennia after millennia, and your meat is by far the most enticing. It made such a delicious sound when Rabastan sliced into you."

"Get the hell away from me," she hissed.

"How rude of me. I have yet to introduce myself. I'm Alastair." The irises and pupils of his eyes disappeared, leaving behind blank, white orbs.

A demon with white eyes, she'd never encountered one or ever even heard of one. He laughed and waggled the knife at her. "I'm guessing Dean never mentioned me, the petulant child." Hermione froze at the mention of Dean's name and glared. "You see, I was his mentor down in Hell and, oh, you should've seen him, Hermione. He. Was. Glorious. Not like the sniveling, pitiful fool he is now."

"Mentor?" Hermione didn't want know what that meant and set fire to what her imagination wanted to conjure. "What's going on?"

"Your friend Rabastan sold you out."

A muffled scream entered the room, and Hermione saw two men drag in a gagged and bound Rabastan Lestrange. One of the two men removed the his gag and shouted, "This was not part of the deal! I give you them, and you restore my full power!"

"Mmmm." Alistair nodded in faux consideration before whirling around and plunging the knife into the man's throat. A juicy, disgruntled noise echoed off the walls as he gurgled for life, blood spilling freely down the front of his shirt. When Lestrange sagged, Alistair removed the knife and flicked the blade, droplets soundly hitting the concrete, and then pointed it at Hermione. "I think I'll slice you from womb to throat, how about that?"

"Keep it simple." From behind Alistair, a pretty girl about fourteen in a school uniform and long blonde hair appeared. "I want her."

"She's a little old for you," Alistair replied.

The girl's eyes turned white, and she licked her lips obscenely and pinned Hermione with a knowing smile. "Sam will love me in you."

Hermione growled vehemently."Lilith!"

Lilith walked by Alistair and crouched down to crawl over Hermione, blonde hair tickling the brunette's face. Hermione tilted her head and sputtered to get the tresses out of her mouth, yet Lilith lowered her face and touched her lips to her ear. "I know all about the deliciously naughty things you do with our boy Sammy. I've wanted to take you out for drive a long, long time." Lilith sat up and straddled Hermione, and she pulled out the hex bag Ruby gave Hermione from her blazer pocket. "But this kept me from you. Found it in your jacket."

"You can't possess me!"

Lilith's skinny fingers crept underneath the left manacle holding Hermione in place and pulled on the bracelet Sam gave her, breaking it. She waved the jewelry and tossed it aside. "When I bleed the life from you, no soul will keep me from your meat."

"My body will reject you." It wasn't her soul that kept demons from possessing her. It was her body, her blood, her magic.

Lilith gripped the hex bag tight and licked her teeth. "We'll see." The canvas burst into flames, the fire lapping at the demon's fingers and blistering the skin. She showed no sign of pain. "Start the ritual. My master is waiting." She got to her feet and left the room.

A vicious wave of nausea consumed Hermione. Shit! Lilith was talking about a seal! The building on Charring Cross Road must be one. And the blood of her and Snape…

"Snape," she hissed. "Wake up! Wake up now!"

Movement was seen from behind his closed eyelids, but they didn't open. Alistair began reciting a spell in a forgotten language, slowly advancing on her. When he got to her, she concentrated on the manacles holding her and broke them. His chanting paused and he purred, "Fascinating." He picked her up by her hair and held the point of his blade between her breasts, puncturing a small hole in her sweater and scraping her bra. Her eyes landed on the burnt up hex bag she'd been hiding on her person since leaving the States. She cast her vision to the ceiling and shouted the first thing that came to mind, "Castiel!"

Alistair stopped his chanting and dropped her gracelessly back on the floor and roared, "No!"

The front door to the building broke open and the dark-haired man in the same trench coat she remembered from Dean's car marched in with a plump, dark-skinned man in a suit. They didn't even spare her a glance but quickly advanced on Alistair who disappeared into thin air. She rolled onto her stomach and got on all fours before climbing to her feet to face the angels. Castiel and his hypnotizing gaze zeroed in on her.

"We need to destroy them, Castiel," the dark-skinned man said.

Hermione took a step back. "I haven't done anything wrong."

Clearly troubled, Castiel looked away from her. "You don't belong here. How you even got here..."

"Then send me back."

"Kill her," the other angel ordered.

"Send me back!"

"It would be unwise." Castiel pinned her with an exasperated expression.

"So killing me is a better option?"

"Sending you back would disrupt the natural order of your world. _You _already died. If I were to return you to your dimension, it could cost the lives of dozens of people. _Your_ kind."

A solid, heavy ball settled in Hermione's stomach, and she stared at the filthy floor. "You're lying," she accused." I don't belong here. Like you said. My family is there. My mum and dad, please. I want to see them. I beg of you, please."

"Castiel!" barked the other angel and he regarded him.

"Leave us. I'll take care of this."

The other angel tossed him a exasperated glare before disappearing, the sound of flapping wings hitting Hermione's ears. "You must forgive Uriel. He can be…"

"A prick." Hermione folded her arms, shivering. "Are you going to kill me now?"

"You calling for me stopped a seal from breaking. This is a victory, and I thank you. But your kinds of peculiarities have no place in this dimension and could cause a domino effect of chaos, especially since your power is stronger than it should be. The fact you require no device to channel your magic through troubles me."

"Put me in my world and it won't matter."

Castiel stared at her morbidly. "You must understand why you can't go home."

"And I can't stay."

Hesitantly, he replied, "You've dedicated your life in doing God's work. That does not go unnoticed."

"I wouldn't exactly call _hunting_ doing God's work."

He continued on like he hadn't heard her. "You've saved many and sacrificed much in helping innocents. Though you are a potential threat, I will not kill you but ask you give me no reason to. Detract from the path of righteousness, and I will eliminate you _and_ the others who hide themselves."

"It's…" Hermione frowned and nudged her head at Snape. "It's just me and him now."

Castiel opened and then closed his mouth before giving a downward tilt of his chin and disappearing. Like Uriel, he left behind the sound of flapping wings.

Hermione sunk to her knees and clasped her hands together, settling them on her legs. On the outside, she appeared to be praying but on the inside, she was trying to accept for the last time she wasn't returning home. The Trickster never told her the reason he wouldn't take her back but Castiel had, and it horribly made sense.

She hugged herself and the image of her mum and dad surfaced in her mind before she gingerly got to her feet and looked down upon Snape. He was still unconscious and she contemplated shaking him awake when deciding against it. She placed a palm on his chest and a white light poured from her fingers. A Tracking Charm should suffice, not wanting to reveal herself quite yet and definitely not wanting a repeat of what happened with Lestrange. She was going to be careful this time.

Hermione found the bracelet Sam gave her, examining it's broken clasp with a frown and then shoved it into her pocket. She'd fix it later.

* * *

**Three Days Later…**

Hermione walked the University of Westminster around midmorning, travelling the chilly grounds of the campus where it thrived with life as students trekked across snow to catch their classes. She had waited three days to summon the courage of pursuing Snape and this college was where her magic lead her. Why that man was here, she had no idea but was curious to find out.

The magic pulled towards the direction of Cavendish, and she instantly disappeared into a throng of students. She shuffled along with them into a building and into a theater-shaped classroom and walked up the steps to find a seat. She scanned the area, searching for Snape's face and saw no one resembling him, so she sat down towards the back and in the middle. Within thirty seconds, two boys sat down on each side of her and hastily pulled out notebooks and textbooks.

"Did you read the chapter?" the one on her right asked. He had dirty blond hair and glasses but didn't bother glancing at her because he was too busy whipping through the pages of the textbook.

"I skimmed it," the boy on her left answered. "Not enough to save me."

"You read it?" the blond boy asked her, finally looking at her and smiling.

"No."

"Think he'll have a quiz today?"

Hermione shrugged.

"I'll think he'll have a quiz today," he murmured right before she saw Snape silently stalk into the room and reside at the front. He put a briefcase down on the table and started up the overhead projector.

"Take out a piece of paper," he said slowly and series of groans erupted throughout the room.

"Quiet! If you read the chapter like the syllabi instructed, there should be little reason to complain." Once the projector was on, a list of questions appeared on the screen covering the whiteboard. "Begin."

The boy on Hermione's left tore out a piece of paper from his notebook and placed it on her desk as well as gave her a pen. She picked it up tentatively and flashed him a quizzical smile.

"Same thing happened to me a few days ago. Got the days mixed up and brought all my Monday Wednesday junk to my Tuesday Thursday classes," he whispered.

For two minutes, Hermione rested her chin on her hand and quietly tapped the edge of the pen against the desk before reserving herself to look at the questions on the board and realized that Snape taught a chemistry class. From the looks of the questions, she'd assume an intermediate level. A wicked, childish idea bubbled into her mind which she couldn't deny for the life of her. In the right hand corner of the college-ruled paper, she wrote Hermione Granger and answered the questions to the quiz.

"Time," Snape said.

A student in the front raised her hand. "Professor Prince, may we have a few more minutes?"

Ignoring her, he said, "All of you pass your quizzes down to the front."

Once all the papers were collected, he put them in his briefcase and began a stimulating lecture on carbon. A half-hour in, Hermione's back and bum began to protest, and she squirmed in her seat. She'd forgotten how physically uncomfortable being a student was. When the class finally ended, she sighed in relief and gingerly got up from the desk, her hips and back popping in the process. God, she was getting old.

"How do you think you did?" asked the boy who gave her the paper. He was stuffing his notes into his book-bag and zipping it up.

"I got them all right."

He gave her an unsure smile. "You sure about that? Hardly anyone masters his quizzes. They're a grade killer."

"I'm not worried." She handed him his pen. "Thank you."

He took it and offered his hand. "Andrew Phelan."

She accepted it stiffly. "Morgan Black."

"I guess I'll see you around."

She smiled but said nothing and merged into the mass of exiting students. Snape was still at the front gathering his lecturing material and paid no mind to who was leaving the classroom. He hadn't changed much, ever still the strict and meticulous and difficult professor she remembered him as. How he came to Westminster or even this dimension, she didn't know, but she could wait. She waited this long already. What was a few more days?

* * *

Snape's class took place on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. He probably taught more, but Hermione wasn't about to go to all of them. Her student days were behind her, and a college degree hardly impressed demons, vampires, and ghosts. Her old life had been all about the academics, and though she prided herself on being brilliant, this life was about staying alive and surviving the upcoming apocalypse. While lurking about the campus, she eavesdropped on several conversations about the catastrophes happening around the word. One seal may have not been broken but there were loads more bursting by the hands of Lilith.

Like she had on Wednesday, Hermione shuffled into the packed classroom and sat down near the back. Two girls sat down by her this time and neither paid much attention to her which was just as well. She threw the hood of her black jacket over her head, hunched over the desk, and rested her chin on folded arms. When Snape entered, he did not enter as briskly like the class previous class. This time he actually bothered to look at the class, his black eyes sweeping over the 150 faces. He didn't find her, and she would've been impressed if he had. So many students, and she looked a little bit different than she did at sixteen.

After a minute, he opened his briefcase, pulling a large stack of papers out and placing them on the front table. "The class average for the quiz was sixty-seven percent. Disappointing. You can pick them up after class."

Another hour of hell for Hermione's back and bum. Throughout Snape's lecture, she rubbed at the knot forming at the base of her spine. She knew that most of the problem was the beatings she took in the last ten years. Hardly thirty and feeling like sixty, she was.

The class concluded and Snape stood rigid and ready by the stack of papers. Thankfully for Hermione, about half of the students didn't bother picking up their quizzes, so she was able to sneak out without drawing any attention to herself. However, she did crook a finger and her quiz speedily flew between the students and into her hand.

The quiz was untouched, not a red mark anywhere. There wasn't even a score and after stealing glances at the other students' papers, she knew that wasn't normal.

* * *

Hermione took a hunt with Junior in Kensington which lasted the entire weekend. She poured herself back into her flat on Sunday night, showered her bruised body, and stared at her reflection for a while, caressing the shiner. Blasted siren and her impressive right hook!

She opened the drawer by her stomach and pulled out a small jar of healing cream. She hadn't used it in a while, wanting to stretch it as long as possible. The ingredients were expensive and hard to come by, so she only used the smallest amount and delicately rubbed it over her eye, clocking the gift Lestrange gave her in the mirror. She desperately wanted to slather on the entire jar of cream on forearm and erase the foul name from her body, but the years of hunting and prioritizing when it came to her healing cream had left her body permanently marred and somewhat immune to new imperfections. The MUDBLOOD scar would have to stay.

A, small sick part of Hermione liked what Lestrange had done. He gave her a permanent reminder of her roots, her origins, her home. If she ever began to believe this world was home, this physical reminder would keep her grounded and mindful of the truth.

The following morning, she peeled herself off the mattress and got ready for Snape's class. Perhaps she was merely miffed by her frustrating hunt, but she was done dawdling and playing mind-games with her former professor. It was time to confront him, so she sat in the back of the room again and listened to his lecture. Ten minutes before the class was to end, he started verbally quizzing random students. Many of them didn't know the answers in which case he'd ask the same question but to someone else until someone got it correct, pointedly ignoring any person raising their hand. Three minutes before the hour was up, there was a question which stumped every student, therefore, aggravating Snape.

"Really? No one? Pitiful." He turned around slowly and faced the whiteboard and began erasing the formulas he wrote during class.

Hermione rested her elbows on the desk and said, "There are _twenty-four_ potassium isotopes but only three occur naturally, therefore, the _only_ ones that are stable and consist of 39K, 40K, and 41K."

The hand holding the eraser froze for a moment before continuing. He said, "That is correct, Miss…"

"Granger. Hermione Granger."

* * *

A/N: No Draco again! Don't hate me. (But do you feel we're getting close? I feel we're getting close) Also, I'm not going to pretend I know anything about chemistry, carbon, or potassium. The internet is amazing and knows stuff, and I am not and do not.

Thank you readers, reviewers, and followers. I know some of you were surprised about Rabastan, and I had so much fun borrowing him from Ms. Rowling, only to slaughter him. I'm also giddy in adding Snape. He's just so frustrating and cool and a whole bunch of adjectives that don't really fit together in the same sentence.

I want to apologize in advance. I'm not sure when I'll get to update again. It may be next weekend or the following or the one after that. *Shrugs*

Please Read and Review!


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